by Jilian Rouge
Rafe and Georgie had also been present at both trials, but at Georgie’s insistence, they did not attend the hanging. It had been enough that the law had been exacted as it should, and there was no need to bear witness to such gory proceedings. As soon as the sentence had been declared, Rafe had taken Georgie home to Lyonscar.
Georgie’s parents, still grieving their son, had tearfully watched the proceedings in the court and were somewhat relieved to receive justice for Ernest. But nothing could completely fill the void created by the loss of a beloved child. With the funeral to contend with and the long days in the courtroom, the Earl and Countess of Penticton had finally retired to their estate, deep in their mourning.
Weeks after the trial, Rafe worried over his wife. He kept her close, not wanting her far from his side since her ordeal with Blackburn and Belhaven. He made sure she never slept anywhere except by his side, in his bed, in his chamber. During the day, he accompanied her on daily walks and rides, and when she wanted to be alone, she stayed shut up in her studio, sometimes for hours on end.
With Ernest gone, there had been no way for new clients to contact Georgie for her “special” commissioned portraits. However, sealed letters with no return address have been coming to the house in increasing frequency addressed to her, letters that were obviously from repeat clients. Coming upon her studio one day when she wasn’t in it, Rafe had found said letters, unopened, lying in a heap in the corner of her studio.
Georgie had lost her passion for her art after losing Ernest. While she still had passion reserved only for him when they were alone together, Rafe realized that Georgie was missing something vital and important that made her quintessentially Georgie. She had painted nothing new, and he wondered what she had been doing in her studio when she locked herself within. But judging by the wet handkerchiefs he found in her chambers, he had an idea of what went on in there.
Rather than confront her about it, he came up with an idea he decided to share with her at dinner. After the main course, he casually asked, “As a potential client, can I ask you to paint a special portrait for me?”
Georgie blanched at the request and it was on the tip of her tongue to refuse. She had no desire to paint anything sensual these past weeks, not when the loss of Ernest still weighed heavy on her; she simply lost the inspiration. Politely, she said, “If I may, I think I’d like to decline the offer.”
But Rafe would not back down. “Before you fully refuse, please hear me out. This may or may not be a good idea, but I wanted to ask you first. Would you paint a portrait of Ernest for me, for us?”
Georgie’s eyes rounded at his request, but she said nothing in reply. Rafe didn’t know if she was just surprised or horrified, but he pressed on. “I know you have nightmares of what happened that day in the alley, just as I have been having lately. In them, I see Ernest lying there, in a pool of his own blood. And when I wake up, I have to face the horror that it wasn’t just a nightmare; it truly did happen.”
Georgie’s eyes pooled with tears as she said in a small voice, “That’s exactly what I see in my nightmares.”
Holding out his hand for her to take, she accepted his hand in a tight grip. Rafe continued sadly, “I miss him as much as you do, Georgie.” Fiercely, he said, “But I’ll be damned if I let these nightmares overrule our memories of him. If you could paint a portrait of our proud, smiling Ernest, then maybe we could hang it in my chamber. His smiling face would surely dispel the demons those nightmares bring.”
Appearing thoughtful, Georgie considered this. Rafe watched as a remarkable change came over his beautiful, strong, determined wife. She wiped the tears from her eyes with one swipe of the back of her hand, and it was as if a spark had lit up within her. His Georgie was back.
Scooting her chair back, she smiled apologetically at Rafe as she rose from her chair. “If you need me, you know where to find me.” Rafe only nodded and smiled at her in response as she rushed from the table to head predictably to her studio upstairs.
Days went by, and Georgie spent most of her free time in her studio. It never occurred to Rafe to disturb her when she was at work nor did he ask her how the portrait was coming along. She had come to their bed exhausted after a full day of painting, but she had welcomed him happily each time he reached for her to make love.
Finally after a fortnight of this routine of hers, Georgie shyly asked him, “Would you like to come see?”
Nodding enthusiastically, Rafe said, “Of course.”
Taking him by the hand, Georgie led the way into her studio. To his surprise, there wasn’t just one finished canvas on display but three.
“It’s no wonder you have been holed up in here for this long. I thought you were working on just the one and wanted it to be perfect,” he remarked with awe.
Playfully swatting at his arm, her eyes sparkling, she said with a wide smile, “I did want them perfect. For you.”
Moving closer, Rafe studied the portrait closest to him. It was of Ernest as he was a month ago, smiling in that amused way of his when he would tease Georgie dreadfully. It made sense that Georgie would paint him this way, as it was a state she would be the most familiar with. Rafe chuckled, “This one is amazingly well done. I feel like he’s about to jump out at you and yell Boo any moment. It will look wonderful on my bedchamber wall.”
Georgie, happy with his review, smiled back at him in satisfaction. “You would be right, since that was my intention. And you don’t know how many times he had done that to me when we were children.”
The next portrait was of Ernest, Rafe, and Lionel, but much younger versions. Again, Rafe was awestruck by the photographic memory Georgie possessed. She had painted them on the very day that they had pulled that awful prank on Mrs. Tuttle’s daughter, the day before they had left for Eton.
On canvas, she captured the moment when Ernest had seized each Griffiths brother around the shoulder, laughing over some joke. It was obvious that the subject matter had been painted from Georgie’s own viewpoint from that day. He remembered she had walked ahead of them on that old path, and she had turned back several times to make sure they followed, or so, he thought. Judging by this portrait, she had been committing to memory the picture they made, three rambunctious boys who had just escaped Mrs. Tuttle’s wrath.
He reached out with a finger towards Lionel’s likeness, but Georgie warned, “The paint is still wet.” Drawing his hand back, he praised, “My wife is a wonder with likenesses. I remember Lionel looking just like that when we would make fun of each other.”
Turning to the last portrait, Georgie turned shy, something he found endearing in her since she was rarely shy in front of him. She was looking at the floor and high color bloomed in her cheeks. His brows rose in astonishment to find the portrait was of him, capturing him tastefully in the nude. The portraiture style was reminiscent of her more illicit commissioned paintings. She had painted him standing in front of his open bedchamber window with the sheer curtains billowing around him, artfully arranged to partially hide his naked form.
He was about to tease her for painting him like this, but then his eyes narrowed at what his painted likeness was holding. Stepping closer, he could just make out a cloth-wrapped bundle cradled in the crook of his arm as his other hand rested on the windowsill. “Is that—” he whipped his head to look to Georgie for confirmation.
Georgie flushed and glowing, proclaimed, “If you were going to say a baby, then yes. Yes it is.”
Rafe’s heart pounded at what he thought she was trying to tell him. But just to tease her, he said, “I was going to say my stock of wadded-up smalls, but if you say it’s a baby, then so it is.”
Her face fell at his mockery of her surprise and she lightly punched him in the stomach. “I’m trying to tell you something important and you’re making fun!”
Laughing, he caught her to him, enveloping her in a tight hug. However, he ended up smashing her face into his chest, his hug too tight in its exuberance. “Firecracker, we made a b
aby? You and I are going to be parents?” he asked incredulously.
Wresting her face from the middle of his chest, she looked up at him, smiling widely. “Yes and yes!
Rafe’s heart couldn’t have been more full as he swept his wife in his arms and twirled her about. He was glad that this past project had helped to pull Georgie from the brink, and in the process, helped him deal with his own grief at losing his brother and best friend. His wife was truly amazing!
Looking down into her smiling face, he promised, “I will love this baby as much as I love its mother. I will protect him or her to the best of my ability.”
“I know you will,” she whispered. Tentatively, she added, “And I wanted to thank you, Rafe. For loving me, but most of all, for not giving up on me. I know I was stubborn about resisting us, but I am ever so grateful that you wouldn’t let me go. Nor did you let me wallow in my grief these past weeks. You helped me find my art again—my painting—it helped.”
“You don’t have to thank me, but I appreciate the sentiment,” he said, kissing her atop her head. “Didn’t I tell you so many times before? I am never going to let you go. Wherever you go, I will come after you to bring you back to me.”
In answer, she rose on tiptoe to plant a sweet kiss upon his lips only to have it turn hot and urgent. There, on the studio floor, they celebrated their love and its fruit, glad to have found their way back to each other. Then later, in their shared bedchamber, they continued their rejoicing amongst the sheets, happy and lighter to have risen above their sorrow by finding solace in each other.
Author’s Note
Given the time in which I have set my story, piracy had been almost eradicated by this time and by the might of the British Navy. For the sake of my hero, I had taken the liberty of embellishing upon his chosen profession on the high seas to make for a better backdrop for his story. I had taken a cursory glance at a few texts regarding piracy, privateering, and the slave trade in the 1800s-1830s, and all three occupations had greatly diminished by the time my story takes place.
As for divorce, it wasn’t common for couples to be granted one simply by requesting one. Sources say that upper class citizens were the only ones who could afford a divorce, but divorce proceedings usually got tied up for an insanely long time in the courts, as well as within the church. Most divorces ended up fizzling out within those same courts due to either money running out or lack of interest in pursuing them to the end. A nice tidy divorce for Rafe and Georgie would never have occurred during this time period, but the threat of a divorce was a nice way of motivating both the hero and heroine into action.
Georgie’s chosen profession of painting erotic subject matter would not have been a common thing either. But judging by the amount of female authors from that era that had written under a male pseudonym, I thought it would be a fun spin for my heroine to try her hand at erotic illustrations and paintings!
I make no claim to being a historian, but I thoroughly enjoy using this time period as a setting for my stories. I apologize for any historical discrepancies to any of the history buffs out there as I have made free with the actual workings of the British Navy, Military, Parliament, and Law.
I hope with all of the above aside that you have enjoyed my story!
All my best,
Jilian Rouge
