Authors: Olivia Waite
But much as she loathed the thought of the pain to come,
Hecuba could not regret the choices she’d made that had led her to Rushmore’s
bed. He’d opened up her world in a very significant way. The physical pleasures
had been illuminating, of course, but what she would miss most was the sense
that there were no masks or barriers between herself and another person. The
sheer intimacy of sharing one’s mind and—yes, she would admit it—one’s heart
with a passionate, intelligent partner, who could appreciate her opinions even
if he didn’t always agree.
Hecuba pulled her thoughts away from such a road lest they
tempt her to weep—though she suspected that many before her had wept upon being
forced into conversation with Mr. Bertram Egley. That gentleman was now
mercifully silent and looking at the door, which was swinging open for the butler
to announce and admit a new guest.
“The Honorable John Rushmore,” he said.
Hecuba’s every muscle tightened in shock.
It was indeed Rushmore, decently clothed for once and
grinning at her while Anne made the introductions to the other guests. Hecuba realized
she’d never seen him in daylight before—but a more minute examination of the
changes this made to his appearance would have to wait, as the gentleman had
now pulled out from behind his back the most hideously large bouquet Hecuba had
ever seen in her life. It looked like a small shrubbery, improbably studded
with an overabundance of flowers, assembled apparently at random and with no
regard for sense or symmetry.
“Dear Lord,” Mr. Bertram Egley whispered in horror, “the
fuchsias
.”
For the first time in all their acquaintance, Hecuba was
inclined to agree. She pushed herself up from her chair as Rushmore approached,
brandishing the floral monstrosity like the weapon it was.
“My dear Miss Jones,” he said and now he was close enough
for her to see the light of mischief in his eyes, “I have brought you something
rather special.”
He presented her with the monster, tilting it slightly
forward so she was looking right down into the heart of the beast. She let her
eyes roam in horror from the roses to the lilies to the inexplicable
large-bladed leaves of grass—and that was when she noticed that all those
eye-searing blooms had been woven around a thick, rolled core of canvas.
Her eyes darted back up to his and he nodded very slightly.
The madman had brought her the third painting hidden in
plain sight.
In that moment, Hecuba tumbled into love with John Rushmore.
It was the worst possible discovery at the worst possible
time.
Everyone was watching—she had to say something. She dredged
up a smile from some deep inner reserve and took the massive bouquet from
Rushmore’s hands. “It’s lovely, Mr. Rushmore—and so impressively sized.”
He nearly choked on a laugh and bowed to cover it. Mr. Egley
coughed and Aunt Pym hastily cleared her throat. “Hecuba,” she said, “please
put Mr. Rushmore’s bouquet somewhere…appropriate.”
There was no appropriate place for something so ghastly
inappropriate—gracious, were those
pine boughs
in there?—but Hecuba took
advantage of the opportunity to get the painting into a safe place. Five minutes
quick work left leaves and petals scattered all over the coverlet on her bed,
but she was then able to unroll the painting at last.
The canvas was small, only a few handspans in width. What it
depicted was
Artemisia
, Hecuba’s mother’s sly self-portrait as the
famous female painter of centuries past. A slim, dark-haired woman in modern
dress faced the viewer, palette and paintbrush in her hand. A nearby easel
showed a perfect copy in miniature of
Judith Slaying Holofernes
—two
women in antique robes holding down a bare-chested man, while the steelier-eyed
of the two sawed at his neck with a sword. The arresting forms and vivid gore
of the miniature were contrasted with the pale sunlight and peaceful scene of
the dark-haired painter—yet her eyes, too, were steely as they looked back at
the viewer, one corner of her mouth lifted at a joke known only to herself. The
brushwork was restrained and meticulous, shadows created by the merest hint of
a line, clear forms appearing out of minute suggestions of color.
It was impossible to say whether the picture’s title
referred to the dark-haired woman or to the fact that the painting within a
painting was a copy of one of the historical Artemisia’s most famous works.
Cynthia Jones had died before her daughter had known even to ask the question.
Hecuba’s fingers traced briefly over her mother’s painted
face, careful not to press too hard and crack the delicate surface. This was
the only self-portrait C. F. Jones had ever allowed herself. Even there she had
to hide within layers of history and veiled allusion lest her identity be
revealed to the embarrassment of her well-born family. Hecuba could only
imagine the strength and dedication it had taken to keep working around and
against such strictures. Her Aunt Pym had found it incomprehensible.
John Rushmore would have understood completely.
No wonder she loved him. But what on earth could she do
about it?
Perhaps—it was the tiniest seedling of hope, but for the
first time Hecuba allowed it to take root—perhaps he would understand her plans
for her future as well. He couldn’t be part of them, not officially, as where
Hecuba was going no gentleman could follow without destroying his own social
standing. But then they weren’t really officially connected now, were they? Why
shouldn’t they preserve an affair that was so rewarding and pleasurable for
them both? As long as it was kept a secret, they would have nothing to worry
about.
Perhaps she didn’t have to lose him after all.
The idea made her breathless, so she took a few moments to
compose herself before heading back downstairs. When she returned to the
parlor, she immediately noticed a new geography. Evangeline was still seated
beside Harold Egley, but Bertram Egley was now being plied with cake by Aunt
Pym while Rushmore lounged in Mr. Egley’s abandoned seat.
Anne—a smiling, blushing Anne leaning forward with
enthusiasm—had taken Hecuba’s chair.
Hecuba could spot the hand of her matrimony-minded aunt in
this. It was only natural that the social ivy should want to cling to the
wealthy and well-featured younger brother of an earl. But did Anne have to look
so very becoming in that particular shade of pink? And did she have to have so
charming a laugh?
Jealously curled like a serpent in the belly. Hecuba
narrowed her eyes.
Ignoring her Aunt Pym’s meaningful glances, she strode over
and sat on a sofa to Rushmore’s left. He turned at once to face her, which
Hecuba was forced to admit soothed the serpent’s sting a little. “Your cousin
was just telling me, Miss Jones, that you are in the habit of distilling your
own pigments.”
Hecuba had been mustering a tart something or other for
Rushmore’s benefit, but this simple statement set her off course.
Anne, behind Rushmore, grinned encouragingly. “She’s taken
over half of the conservatory,” said her cousin, while Hecuba gaped. “Mother
scolds her sometimes when the chemical smell leaks into other areas of the
house.”
“If she wouldn’t keep closing the windows, she wouldn’t have
to worry so much,” Hecuba retorted while Rushmore chuckled. “I made a batch of
vermillion last week and it took hours for the fumes to dissipate. Closing the
windows was more than a little dangerous—and it’s not as though she does any
gardening there herself.”
“I should like to see these colors of yours sometime,” Rushmore
said. “You may not know it, Miss Jones, but I am something of a painter
myself.”
“Only something, Mr. Rushmore?” Hecuba shook her head in
mock disapproval. “You will have to be a complete painter if you hope to
impress me.”
“Give me the right pigments, Miss Jones, and I promise I
shall.” He leaned forward, conspiracy on his lips and challenge in his eyes.
“The vermillion, perhaps?”
Anne interrupted, leaping to her feet. “I know where it’s
kept—I’ll fetch it.” Her mother sent her a stern glance, intended no doubt to
intimidate the girl back into her seat beside the eligible gentleman. Anne
ignored this entirely and breezed from the room.
Aunt Pym’s vengeance for this was swift and cruel—she sent
Mr. Bertram Egley over with a cup of tea for Rushmore. “Lemon or cream, sir?”
he asked. “I’d recommend one slice of lemon, though it still isn’t a perfect
balance of flavors.”
Rushmore thanked him and put two slices of lemon in his tea.
“I’ve always appreciated a little extra tartness,” he replied, smiling sidelong
at Hecuba.
This man had seen and touched every inch of her, had caused
her to curse and beg and berate him for who knows how many things—yet even a
slantwise compliment from him could make her blush with pleasure. Oh, she was a
sorry case indeed.
“Besides,” Rushmore went on to the oblivious Egley, “you
must know that the longer the tea steeps, the more robust the brew and the more
lemon you can add without fear.”
Mr. Egley’s face lit up. “Of course, you are right!” he
exclaimed and hurried back to where Aunt Pym was supervising Evangeline’s
pouring of the new pot of tea. Soon he returned with two more cups—one for
himself and one for Hecuba, which he presented with a not-ungraceful flourish.
She took a sip just to be polite. Lemon and the barest hint
of sugar twined around the richer flavors like cats around a well-loved ankle.
It was easily the most delicious cup of anything she’d ever tasted in her life.
She blinked in surprise. “Why, Mr. Egley, this is wonderful!” she said.
He blushed and dropped his eyes. “I do so like to get these
things right,” he said. “Your cousin has an instinct for a well-brewed pot as
well.” With a slight bow, he crossed the room and took a seat beside
Evangeline, who brightened visibly and began chatting with rather more than her
usual animation.
His elder brother frowned before being distracted by Aunt
Pym.
Hecuba took another sip of tea. “I should have more patience
with Mr. Egley in future,” she said.
Rushmore considered the man, who had absorbed Evangeline in
a debate on the merits of various cakes. “I’d like to get his opinion on port
someday,” he said. “A palate like his is a rare thing indeed.”
“And yet you observed it after a minute’s acquaintance,”
Hecuba said. “I’ve known the man for months and it never crossed my mind to
take him seriously.”
“Oh, he shouldn’t be taken entirely seriously,” Rushmore
admitted. “But I like to think that everyone has some element of genius in
them. The trick is to find it. Mr. Egley’s was far more apparent than most.”
Hecuba considered this for a long moment. “What’s mine?” she
asked.
His smile was full of awareness, the knowing look he usually
wore in the nights they shared, and it took her breath away. “I can think of a
few things you do
exceptionally
well,” he teased, but then the glint in
his eyes became a steadier light. “But I think the base and bedrock of your
genius is this, Miss Jones—you have a great talent for remaking the world
around you.”
Hecuba snorted.
Rushmore ignored this. “It shouldn’t surprise me to learn
you’re a colorist. There’s more than a little alchemy in that, you know. Taking
a substance, separating its elements, purifying them and recombining them to
make something new and surprising.”
He leaned forward, one hand coming to rest on the arm of the
sofa. “When something isn’t right in your eyes—when someone, for instance, has
sold something that ought to have come to you—you do something to change it.”
“That adventure did not go precisely as I planned,” Hecuba
pointed out, with a quick glance at Aunt Pym.
“No,” Rushmore concurred, lowering his voice, “but you
adapted your plans to suit the events that followed. You wanted those paintings
back. You will get them—and you’ve transformed both my life and yours in the
process.”
“Two lives do not make up a world, Mr. Rushmore,” she said.
“They can, Miss Jones,” he replied. His gloved hand brushed
her shoulder—a touch invisible but not unfelt.
At that moment, Anne returned with a stoppered vial in her
hand. She presented it to Rushmore then threw herself on her proverbial sword
by taking an empty seat beside her mother. Aunt Pym immediately directed her
attention to Harold Egley, apparently giving Evangeline up as a lost
matrimonial cause, at least for the present.
Rushmore was holding the vermillion in the light, turning it
around to watch the fine red grains tumble against the surface of the glass.
“This is quite a pure hue, Miss Jones,” he said. “May I keep it?”
“So long as you do not keep it for long,” Hecuba said with a
mischievous smile of her own. “It was made to be used, not simply bottled up
and admired.”
He grinned and tucked the vermillion into a pocket. “There
is a particular vision I should like to attempt—say, in two nights’ time.”
“Two nights,” Hecuba agreed. The assignation thus arranged
and with her relatives none the wiser, she smiled demurely into her teacup.
The next morning John slept quite late and spent his
afternoon buying more canvas and supplies. He was going through them at a
rather alarming rate—not even his generous funds would support this forever—but
he felt as though he were making up for years of lost time. He could afford to
be temperate in his old age rather than in the prime years of his life.
With that in mind, he stopped in at his club for supper
before heading home.
The whole house was ablaze when he returned—odd, since Simon
hadn’t mentioned any social engagements to him. But indeed there was the clink
of plates, the faint smell of a feast devoured and the oceanic murmur of a
dinner party on its third glass of wine. Baritone and bass voices swelled like
the tides, while the altos and sopranos shimmered above them like foam.
The earl met him in the hallway, glass of champagne in hand.
“Where have you been?” he demanded, but just as quickly waved the question
aside. “No matter. Evening clothes—now.”
John’s answer was a ludicrously deep bow with several
elaborate curls of his hand. Simon snorted and returned to his guests.
Vickery had already laid out the proper attire. John handed
over the parcel of painting supplies and began unbuttoning. “Shall I take these
up to the north attic, sir?” the valet inquired.
John’s hands paused mid-button. “The north attic?” he said.
“That is where you’ve been painting, sir, is it not?”
Unease bubbled up from the depths. “Yes it is,” he admitted.
“But you can leave them here—I’ll take them up myself.”
“Very good, sir.” Vickery helped John into his coat and
approved the knot of his cravat. John’s anxiety followed him like a ghost as he
descended the stairs to the card room, where the party seemed to be centered.
Simon met him at the foot of the stairs and handed him a
glass of champagne. “For the nerves,” he said enigmatically.
John could only stare at him. “What is all this?” he asked.
It was not the most eloquent of responses but it had the benefit of being to
the point.
Simon tapped his nose with a finger. “A surprise,” was all
he would say.
John downed the champagne in a single draught.
The voices ebbed as he entered the room then surged again to
an even higher pitch. He recognized almost everyone present as part of the fast
set—school friends turned rakehells, poetic types, sloe-eyed widows and known
eccentrics. One ancient and regal woman in a turquoise turban winked at him.
There were no blushing debutantes, no stolid, red-faced landholders, no withered
members of parliament or ice-eyed social patronesses in sight.
And by now nearly everyone had turned to look at him. John
felt the hairs on the back of his neck lift. “Simon?” he said again.
“It’s all right,” his brother said. “I just wanted to show
you that the family is proud of you.”
“Proud?” John asked. His brain felt as though it were rusted
over, the wheels and cogs unable to turn and complete the process of
comprehension.
“As a painter,” Simon said patiently.
And John saw them.
His canvases and sketches, all of them, ranged around the
room in pools of candlelight. Everywhere Hecuba’s half-captured form, painted
and posed and displayed in all its evident glory. In pride of place were the
three large oils—
Circe, Hylas and the Naïad
and—oh God no—
Aurora.
The pose that had seemed so intimate and ardent when he’d
painted it became lurid and debauched in the presence of so many avid
onlookers. The red background, the tumbled sheets and most of all that
obscenely tied cravat that brought a male, modern presence into the painting
and charged it with sexual immediacy.
From the flames that surrounded her, Hecuba smiled.
John looked wildly around but it was clear from the knowing
looks and behind-hand whispers that at least one guest had recognized the
model. Word was spreading. The scandal had its wings already.
John rushed out of a side door to the garden and retched
into a bush. He kept heaving long after his stomach was empty, sliding down to
his knees with his hands on the wrought-iron railing, breathing in great gulps
of cold night air.
Simon’s hand came down on his shoulder and a glass of water
appeared. John ignored it, despite the burning in his throat that made it hard
to force the words out. “You. Have ruined.
Everything
.”
“Oh, get up,” Simon said, patting his shoulder. John shook
him off but rose to his feet, hands clenching and unclenching restlessly. His
brother continued, “I know it’s a bit of a shock, but now no one can deny your
talent as an artist. And your model has quite a promising start as a professional
beauty.” He threw out a suggestive elbow. “No wonder you’ve been keeping her to
yourself—she’s a staggering creature! Though there is something familiar in the
face… Did you find her at the opera? Covent Garden?” John could only sputter on
hearing that, which only made Simon’s grin wider. “Somewhere even less
reputable?”
That was Simon—the elder brother, the heir, always so smug,
always so
right
. In a flash John had him up against the wall, hands
fisted in Simon’s lapels, choking the superior breath right out of him. “Do you
recall,” John managed, though it was hard to unclamp his jaw against the fury,
“two weeks ago when we went to Lord Heatherton’s ball?”
Simon fought against his brother’s grip but was too shocked
to succeed. “Let go!” he choked.
“We met the ladies of a charming family, rather new to
London,” John ground out.
Simon froze. John watched the moment of realization pass
like a shroud over his face, paling everything beneath. “The sisters…” he
breathed. “The cousin with the red hair.”
“Miss Hecuba Jones,” John confirmed. He gave Simon one more
small throttle for good measure then released him and stepped away. “A lady—not
an opera singer and not a whore. I won’t claim we’ve behaved with all due
propriety, but we were managing just fine between us.” He scrubbed at his
mouth, bitterness all he could taste. “Until tonight.”
Simon brushed his hands down the front of his coat,
smoothing away the wrinkles. He narrowed his eyes. “Next you’ll be telling me
you didn’t fuck her, though you obviously spent a great deal of painting time
staring at her tits.”
“That’s none of your damn business,” John growled.
“So you
have
fucked her.”
“I was hoping to marry her!” John shouted, bringing Simon up
short.
“That’s good to hear, dear brother,” he said, “because
that’s exactly what you’re going to do.”
John’s night, from that point, proceeded to get even worse.
His brother ended the party abruptly and sent the guests
away. John chafed at the thought that this would only give more speed to the
rumors, but the thought of trying to smile his way through the rest of the
night was intolerable. The last candle in the card room had barely been
extinguished before Simon was ordering the carriage and demanding that John
tell him where Hecuba lived. “It’s always better to confront the problem
head-on,” the earl said.
John fought the urge to wipe that arch expression right off
Simon’s face with a well-thrown punch to the jaw. “There is no way in hell you
are coming with me,” he growled.
Simon sent him the exact same glare their father had used
back when the worst trouble his sons caused had been to switch the salt and
sugar in the kitchen. “This was my mistake,” Simon said, “even though you laid
the foundations. I refuse to relinquish my share of the consequences. The family
must preserve some honor.”
John turned his face away and let the argument die. He was
already twisted and breaking inside at the thought of what he had to tell
Hecuba. Of her image, splayed out for the titillation of his brother’s guests.
Of what the news would do to her and their fragile, newborn trust.
He thought of telling her that she had no choice but to
marry him and knew at once that she was going to refuse.
Rage was doused and turned to ash by the sickening awareness
that he’d lost everything important in his life.
Oh, he would recover from the scandal eventually. The
gentleman always did in cases like these. There would be a few high-placed
sticklers who would write him off as a lost cause, but far and away the
majority would gasp and giggle and forget all about it over the course of a few
quietly lived years.
Hecuba, however, was irrevocably ruined. Painted in the nude
then displayed for all his friends to gawk at! It was beyond shocking. It would
destroy her whole family.
God, he hadn’t even had a chance to tell her about the third
painting! He’d presumed so much. He’d believed he could keep a secret by sheer
willpower. He’d borrowed her likeness without her knowledge and used it as a
weapon against her. How could he ever paint again after this?
How could he paint without Hecuba?
How could he live without her?
How was he going to tell her about all this?
The Pyms’ windows were dark and the household abed when they
arrived, but it did not remain so for long. The family gathered in the parlor,
rubbing the sleep from their eyes and smoothing their hands over hair
disordered by blankets and pillows. John’s palms were clammy and his knees
shaky. He locked them in place, looked directly at Hecuba and forced himself to
begin the story.
He explained, for the benefit of her aunt and uncle, that
they’d had an arrangement to trade her mother’s paintings for the new ones he
would paint with Hecuba as a model. He left out her attempted theft and
especially their mutual seduction, because if he had to profane that mystery as
well he would be sick all over again. Hecuba narrowed her eyes at his obvious
omissions but allowed them to stand.
However, he was now at the difficult part.
“I painted a third painting,” he said, twisting his hands
behind his back. “Yesterday morning, without Hec—Miss Jones. No malice was
intended, but I’m afraid I let myself get carried away. I…I painted something
that I shouldn’t have.”
“What was that?” Hecuba’s uncle demanded.
John flicked him a glance but the bulk of his attention
remained on Hecuba herself. “A nude,” he said.
Aunt Pym shrieked and sank to the floor. Anne and Evangeline
ran to help her, though they looked shocked and shaken themselves.
Hecuba only folded her arms. “And?” she said.
“What do you mean, ‘And’?” her uncle spluttered.
“I want to know what happened between yesterday morning and
the present late hour,” Hecuba went on. “He didn’t rush over to apologize for
the painting then—what makes an apology necessary now?” There was a curious
thickness in her voice though her face was unchanged. John ached to wrap his
arms around her and tell her everything would be all right, but he knew it
wouldn’t be—and he couldn’t touch her until he’d told her the full story.
John allowed himself one deep breath. “Tonight, as a
surprise, my brother invited a number of people he thought would appreciate the
new paintings he’d found I’d been making. He was trying to show me he was proud
of my work.” The word “proud”slithered off his tongue, as bitter as
poison.
Uncle Pym let out an oath that degraded several generations
of the Rushmore family. Simon, to his credit, never flinched. “And this vile
painting—you exhibited it? In public?” Uncle Pym demanded.
“We showed all of them,” John admitted, the sentence falling
like a stone into the stillness of his audience. “All three paintings, plus a
number of sketches and studies. All of Miss Jones.” His breath rattled a little
in his throat under the weight of the next bit. “Someone recognized her.”
Aunt Pym let out a wail.
Hecuba’s lips thinned and she closed her eyes.
John didn’t feel any better now that the truth was out. “I’m
sorry,” he said. “So terribly sorry.”
“Sorry?” yelled Uncle Pym. He took a great step forward and
planted a fist in John’s face. John let the blow fall without resistance, let
it rock him back until he staggered up against the wall. His eye throbbed and
pulsed and he knew it would be fully black by morning.
He still didn’t feel any better. Hecuba hadn’t yet opened
her eyes.
Simon decided this was his opportunity. “Of course,” he said
to Uncle Pym, “my brother will marry your niece as soon as possible.”
Just like that all the color began to leach out of the
world. Anything John could say now was tainted. He could shout that he loved
Hecuba, that he had wanted to marry her anyway, that he only hoped she would
accept an idiot like him as a spouse—and all they would hear was the shiny
sound of a good boy doing his duty and following his brother’s orders. “Miss
Jones,” he said, “would you give me a few moments in private?”
Hecuba opened her eyes and oh, they were cold. “No,” she
said.
“Hecuba, you must accept the gentleman—” said Aunt Pym.
“I will not.” She said this calmly enough but it threw the
rest of the family into an absolute uproar. Evangeline began to cry, Anne began
to argue and Aunt Pym began another impossibly sustained howl of grief. Hecuba
looked at John with the barest hint of pity in her expression. “I’m terribly
sorry, Mr. Rushmore,” she said.
He’d known what she would do and still John’s heart broke
under those quiet words as though they weighed as much as mountains. If he
opened his mouth the sounds would be inhuman, garbled noises of anguish, so
instead of speaking he bowed to indicate his understanding.
“I could marry her myself,” Simon offered, still addressing
Uncle Pym. “People would be much less likely to speak out openly against a
duchess, no matter how she came to the title.”
John had only begun to register the magnitude of his horror
at this suggestion when Hecuba spoke. “I appreciate your strategy, my lord, but
I refuse your offer as well.” John let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been
holding and slumped harder against the wall. “I have other plans for my
future,” Hecuba continued. “They do not include marriage—not even to save
myself from scandal.”