I’ve seen children on the street wield blades to defend a crust of moldy bread with more authority.
Charlotte wondered if Flynn Rutledge had been one of them.
She ran the tip of her finger along the edge of the paper. She could almost feel the defiance and the determination emanate from the paper itself.
“You haven’t said anything.” Rutledge still hadn’t looked at her.
“It’s actually quite arresting,” she said, taking the coward’s way out and stealing his words.
He made an indecipherable noise.
“Why didn’t you show this to me yesterday?” Charlotte asked.
“I didn’t have it yesterday. I did that last night.”
“Ah.”
“I’m not saying you’re right,” he said, finally turning. “About depicting St. Michael as a savior and as a soldier.”
“But you’re not saying I’m wrong either.” She hid a smile.
“I think there is room for both.” He pinned her with a steely gaze. “Where are you from, Mr. Beaumont?”
“I’m sorry?” The question caught her off guard.
“Where are you from? Where did you study?”
Charlotte shifted uncomfortably. She’d practiced answers to these questions with Clara. Every answer was a version of the truth. Just like the story she had spun yesterday when she had slipped and made her thoughtless comment about the Sistine Chapel. It had been the only time she’d ever traveled with her family, grudgingly included for ten glorious weeks. And it had almost betrayed her here.
“Aysgarth,” she said, answering his question. And hoping that Flynn Rutledge was not familiar with the tiny village. Or the fancy manor house that loomed on its outskirts.
A sandy-blond brow rose. “Yorkshire?”
“You’ve been?” Charlotte asked with trepidation.
“No. But I can read a map as well as the next man.”
Relief trickled through her.
“You didn’t tell me where you studied.”
Charlotte shrugged. “Nowhere.”
“Nowhere,” Rutledge repeated with heavy skepticism. “You’re telling me you are completely self-taught?”
“I suppose.” She shrugged again. “I took a handful of lessons in watercolors.” That was true. One of her early governesses had been enthusiastic if not overly talented. “But I’ve always preferred to work in oils.” Which no governess would ever have taught. Oil paints were not a medium suitable for well-bred ladies.
“Have you publicly exhibited your work anywhere?”
Charlotte almost snorted at the utter absurdity of that question before reminding herself that Rutledge was asking Charlie, not Charlotte, that question. The number of women who had somehow managed to exhibit their work at a venue like the Royal Academy in the last fifty years could be counted on one hand. “I’m afraid not.”
“How did Lisbon find you?”
Charlotte gazed at Rutledge, realizing he had been leading up to this question. “I did a piece for a mutual friend.” That explanation had worked on the Haywards.
“What sort of piece?” Apparently, Rutledge was not so easily satisfied.
“A portrait.”
“Of what?”
“A girl.” Charlotte leaned back against the table and crossed her arms over her chest, feeling the bindings across her breasts pull beneath her baggy clothing. “Where are you from?”
He gave her a hard look, as if he was weighing the sincerity of her query.
“It’s not a trick question, Mr. Rutledge.”
“The art community is a small one. I would have thought…”
“Thought what? That you are that famous? Or that I am that ignorant?” She said it lightly.
“You knew I had painted the Madonna in the apse of the church.”
“Because Mr. Lisbon pointed that out to me when I arrived.”
He scowled. “London,” he said after a moment, finally answering her original question. “I’m from London.”
“Where?”
“Nowhere pleasant you’d want to hear about.”
Charlotte couldn’t say she was surprised, given her earlier suspicions. “Did you attend one of the academies?”
“I attended the same one as you, it would seem.” Rutledge looked grim.
Charlotte tipped her head, trying not to look startled. Now that surprised her. No matter where he’d grown up, his skill should have gained him entry to a collection of academies and schools. “We have something in common then.”
“I really doubt that.” There was bitterness lacing his words, a sort of anguish that made Charlotte want to take his hand and ask what he meant by that. Ask what she could do to help. She jammed her fingers farther under her arms to prevent herself from doing anything so foolish.
“Tell me how you’re going to paint your soldier,” she said instead.
“My soldier?”
“You have captured the warrior in a way I could not. I think there is a great deal of you in this.”
She could almost see Rutledge bristle. “What are you implying?”
“I’m not implying anything.” Charlotte gazed at him. “I’m only suggesting that one paints what one knows,” she said slowly. “It is impossible for our own experiences to not act as a filter through which we see the world. How we reproduce it here on these pages. It’s what makes us unique. It’s what gives our work life.” She glanced down at the sketch, wondering again at the circumstances that had shaped this man’s view.
Rutledge made an odd noise, somewhere between a sneer and a scoff. He advanced and reached past her, snatching her own sketch of St. Michael off the table and holding it up between them. “You are a savior and I am a soldier? Is that the light you see yourself in? How you see me?”
“I’m not anyone’s savior,” she said carefully. Save, perhaps my own. “And I don’t know you well enough to see you in any sort of light.” His eyes flickered down to the drawing again, and Charlotte cast about for words that would extricate herself from the dangerous undercurrents of his challenge. “I was only proposing that the juxtaposition of these sketches is what will make the completed work compelling,” she said quietly. “That is what you wanted, isn’t it? Something compelling?”
The scent of him enveloped her completely now, soap tinged with a hint of wood smoke and turpentine. She could see his chest rising and falling faster than normal, his features tight, his eyes stormy. The ridiculous urge to reach out and touch him again, to brush the hair from his troubled eyes, rose hard and fast. A longing to smooth the deep lines from his forehead, feel the roughness of the stubble that covered his rigid jaw.
He was still staring at her, and Charlotte shifted uneasily under his scrutiny, feeling suddenly and horribly exposed. She took a step back and then another.
“Fine,” he said abruptly, before she could retreat farther.
“Fine?” she repeated, her voice wobbling a little.
“I will present these to Lisbon. See if he agrees with the idea.”
“We should discuss other aspects of the composition first, don’t you agree?” Charlotte said, desperately trying to distance herself from these dangerous feelings and yearnings with practical, safe subjects. “Background and balance. Proportion and the palette.” She thought she might be babbling now, but she couldn’t stop.
Rutledge didn’t seem to notice. “And I suppose you have suggestions for those things as well.”
Charlotte nodded. “Some.” She shuffled back just a little farther for good measure. “Lisbon will want a detailed proposal.”
Rutledge sighed but moved to extract a blank sheet of paper from the pile of drawings he had left on the end of the table. “Very well. Let’s get this over with.”
Chapter 5
The juxtaposition of these sketches is what will make the completed work compelling.
That was what Beaumont had said to Flynn in that quiet, utterly unflappable manner of his. But what Flynn was finding compelling wa
s the juxtaposition that seemed to be Charlie Beaumont.
The eloquence of his words and the careful thought he seemed to give each sentence that came out of his mouth were not what he might have expected from a boy from Aysgarth. Though assumptions were rarely wise or valuable. Perhaps the time Beaumont had spent in the presence of rich, titled families, like the one he had traveled with to Italy, had educated him. Or perhaps his fine speech, like his artistic skill, had also been self-taught, to better appeal to his wealthy and elite clients.
Though if he was trying to appeal to wealthy clients, his appearance was an oddity. The baggy clothes that Beaumont wore did nothing to make him look older, which is what Flynn guessed was his intent. In fact, the shapeless garments made him look even younger—like a boy playing dress up. Surely when Beaumont had traveled to Italy with his rich clients, he had not dressed like that, given the effort that he had put into his speech? Surely, somewhere, he had a coat and trousers that fit properly?
And surely Flynn had better things to be worried about than what Charlie Beaumont wore. Or how he spoke.
Or how his gentleness seemed to snuff every single fight that Flynn was spoiling for.
He groaned and rubbed his temples, staring up at the empty space at the end of the nave, the walls waiting for something that truly deserved his concern and attention. Something that really did need to be…compelling.
“Mr. Rutledge.” Henry Lisbon jolted him out of his musings, and Flynn turned to find the architect walking toward him, looking somewhat harried as usual.
“Lisbon.” Flynn pushed himself away from the back of the pew he had been leaning against.
The architect held out the drawings and detailed proposal Rutledge had submitted to him that morning. “Yes.”
“Yes?”
“Yes to it all. Save for the gilding on the panel edges—no one wished to spend additional money. But the directors and the clergy, down to the last man, are thrilled with the concept. A brilliant idea.”
Flynn felt a muscle in his jaw flex. Of course they were thrilled. “I must confess, the concept idea was Mr. Beaumont’s.”
“Indeed? Then I am pleased to hear that the two of you are working together so well.” Lisbon was peering at him intently.
“Of course.” What else was he going to say?
Lisbon was still studying him closely. “You see no problems moving forward with the work?” he asked. “With Mr. Beaumont?”
What kind of question was that? “No,” Flynn said, trying to cover his irritation.
“I trust you’ve found his work to be…satisfactory?” It was said with a bit of an edge.
“Indeed.”
“And he has, for all his youth, thus far conducted himself in a professional manner as I, and our clients, expect?”
His teeth clenched. “Yes.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” The architect pulled his coat closer around him. “You’ll advise me when there is a preliminary mock-up of the panels?” he asked.
“Yes.” Flynn tucked the drawings under his arm. “We’ll get started immediately.”
Flynn retreated from the church, his strides eating up the ground. Despite his initial discontent, a familiar feeling was starting to unfurl, one he hadn’t felt in a long time. The thrill of a new project soared within him, accompanied by the anticipation of being able to do what he loved more than anything in the world. Confidence that he possessed all the skill to make it as incredible as he wished it to be. Eagerness to simply…create, now that he had a direction.
With a bit of a start, he realized that he was suddenly grinning like a fool.
Flynn shoved open the door of the makeshift studio. “Good news, Mr. Beaumont—” He stopped abruptly. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Charlie Beaumont jumped slightly though he didn’t turn. He had a number of Flynn’s sketches laid out before him, the sketches that Flynn had failed to put away earlier and had carelessly left on the end of the table.
“She’s quite beautiful,” Beaumont murmured quietly. “Who is she?”
Flynn stalked to the table and swept the sketches into his hands in a single movement. “None of your goddamn business,” he snarled. He gathered the rest of his drawings and stuffed them back into his satchel. “You had no right to look at them. No right to touch them.”
“You left them on the table,” Beaumont pointed out mildly.
“That didn’t give you leave to pry.” He was almost shouting, even as he realized that his anger was aimed inwardly. Truth was, he should have burned those drawings long ago.
“My apologies, Mr. Rutledge.” Beaumont retreated back toward the panels. “It was not my intent to cause you grief over so personal a matter.”
“It’s not personal, dammit,” he snapped. At least, not anymore. Cecelia had made that abundantly clear. Belatedly, and with no little dismay, Flynn wondered if Beaumont’s efforts to convince him he was a stranger had been a ploy. Wondered if the boy was already privy to the rumors that seemed to dog Flynn everywhere he went. If he already suspected who the woman in the drawings was and was merely baiting Flynn or seeking confirmation. “And it’s none of your concern.”
“Of course,” Beaumont replied quietly. “Again, my apologies.”
Flynn searched the boy’s words for sarcasm or judgment but found only distant civility. Which made him feel even worse. He closed his eyes briefly. He was being absurd and had only succeeded in making an utter fool of himself. Even if Beaumont knew exactly who he was and had heard every scandalous, duplicitous detail, it was long in the past and irrelevant to the here and now. He needed to pull himself together.
“You will be pleased to hear that Lisbon has endorsed our proposal,” Flynn said, trying for a more conciliatory manner. “All the detailed plans save for the gilding on the edges.”
“That is indeed pleasing.” Beaumont’s voice was devoid of inflection.
“He is anxious for us to start.”
The boy turned away from him. “As am I.”
Chapter 6
Charlotte successfully avoided Flynn Rutledge for the next two days.
Well, perhaps avoided was a bit of an exaggeration for two people sharing the same space, but at no point in time did they trade any words other than a good morning and a good night. As it was, the days passed in a blur, Charlotte completely losing track of the time, as she was often wont to do when she became immersed in a project. Minutes and hours ceased to have meaning. She was aware of nothing save for the scratch of charcoal over the smooth oak surface, the crinkle of paper as she consulted her detailed sketches, and the soft creaking of the wooden boards on the scaffold as she moved across them.
It wasn’t until her eyes started to ache at the end of the second day that she realized she had lost almost all of her natural light.
She sat back, balancing on the middle span of the scaffold, her cramped muscles protesting loudly. She winced, but even the discomfort couldn’t diminish the rush of pleasure she felt as her eyes roamed over her work. The initial sketch across the panel was complete, black lines waiting to be brought to life by color. Her fingers, tired as they were, already itched for her brushes.
“Lady Cecelia Mountbatten.”
Charlotte jerked, her pulse skipping. While she worked, she had mercifully forgotten about Flynn Rutledge and his mercurial temper. Had she known how defensive and furious he would get over those drawings, she wouldn’t have come within ten feet of them. She hadn’t had any interest in a confrontation then, and she certainly didn’t want to confront him now. “I beg your pardon?”
“The woman in the drawings.”
Charlotte turned carefully on the platform to find Rutledge looking up at her, holding two steaming mugs. With a start, she saw that at some point he must have fed the fire in the hearth and lit the lanterns hanging on the walls against the encroaching night. He’d shed his coat, and dark smudges marred the paleness of his shirt. Her eyes darted to his panel, but as usual, he had cov
ered it with a long sheet. She had no idea why he insisted on hiding his work, but she was certainly not going to ask and risk another tirade.
She eyed him warily, making no move to descend.
His own gaze examined her work behind her. “An impressive start, Mr. Beaumont.”
“Thank you.” Still, Charlotte hesitated, unsure what he wanted from her. Unsure she wanted to engage in any sort of conversation about any part of his life that wasn’t related to the panels behind her.
He held a mug out to her. “I come in peace.” Charlotte supposed that was as close to an apology as she was going to get. Her stomach suddenly rumbled in hunger, and she realized she hadn’t eaten anything all day, too absorbed in her work. She left her tins and charcoal on the scaffold and climbed down.
She accepted the mug from his hands, careful not to touch him, and let the warmth seep into her skin. She took a tentative sip of the steaming tea, closing her eyes briefly in appreciation. He had brewed it strong, exactly how she liked it.
“Lady Cecelia Mountbatten was my…lover.” Rutledge said it flatly—how he might describe a pebble in his shoe that had been difficult to dislodge.
Charlotte studied him over the rim, trying to determine why he was telling her this and what it was he wanted her to say. I’m sorry seemed a possibility, given his tone. She didn’t know Lady Cecelia Mountbatten personally, had never met her, but she’d overheard someone mention her many years prior. The widow of the Earl of Boyle was as famous for her dalliances with artists and actors as she was for her wealth. Though details of those dalliances had never interested Charlotte. Until now.
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