That Summer: A Novel (35 page)

Miss Evie, in Gavin’s opinion, was well capable of looking out for herself.

“Is that what this is about?” he asked in a low, intense voice. “Sacrificing your own happiness on the altar of hers? Did you never stop to think that it was not only your happiness, but also mine, that was at stake?”

She looked at him with wide, pleading eyes. “It is not that simple—”

Simple? Keeping a social smile on his face, he said in a rapid undertone, “I have been half-mad with worry. I thought you were sick, dying. Or that Grantham had locked you up. And then to find you here, like this—”

Imogen’s hand reached out, as though she might touch his sleeve, and just as quickly fell away. “Please. Not—not here.”

“Then where?” He turned his back to the room, blocking her from view with his body. “Day after day, and all I hear is that you are detained
by domestic concerns
.” He had the satisfaction of seeing her wince. “I had not thought your affections that lightly given—or rescinded.”

Imogen stared into Turner’s orange sunset. “They are not.” Her voice was barely audible. “Do you not think I—” She broke off, biting her lip, and said very quietly, “I have missed you more than I can say. Is not that enough?”

“Easy enough to say.” It maddened him that he must speak only to her profile, must keep up the pretense of polite chatter when his very soul was on the rack.

“No. It hasn’t been easy at all.” She shook her head in frustration. “Please believe me, if I have been cruel, it is for your benefit, not mine,”

“And why should I believe you?” he asked, his frustration rising to match hers. “You speak in riddles.”

Imogen squared her shoulders. The nape of her neck looked very bare and vulnerable, the gold chain of her necklace trailing down behind. “Then let me speak plainly. There must be nothing to tie you to me, nothing to incriminate you—when the scandal breaks.”

Something about the way she said it made the hairs on the backs of Gavin’s hands stand up. “What scandal?”

“Have you not seen Mr. Ruskin’s del Verrocchio?” said Imogen in a loud, clear voice, and Gavin was reminded, jarringly, that they weren’t alone, that there was a roomful of people around them. “It is one of the prizes of his collection. It dates from the fifteenth century and is really quite the loveliest I have seen of its kind. I believe it will interest you.”

Mastering his impatience, Gavin followed Imogen into the relative privacy of the alcove. The painting was a Madonna and child, a miracle of color and line, the Madonna resplendent in her blue robe, her head bowed, the child kicking his chubby legs on the ground in front of her. Ordinarily, Gavin would have been rapt. But now his attention was all for Imogen.

“What scandal?” he demanded. “If Grantham doesn’t know of us—”

Imogen drew in a long, shaky breath. “He will.” In the shadows of the alcove, her face looked tired and drawn. “It will soon become all too obvious to Arthur that I—that I betrayed him with someone. I would prefer, if I can, to spare you.”

Gavin opened his mouth to ask why, but the answer struck him before the words could make their way from his throat to his lips.

Dry-mouthed, dizzy, he looked first to the
Madonna and Child,
the little baby on his pallet on the ground. Did she—were they—

Imogen’s lips twisted in a sad little smile. “Yes,” she said. “I am with child.”

TWENTY-ONE

Herne Hill, 1849

“Mine,” he said.

It wasn’t a question.

There was no point in denying it. “Yours.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Gavin’s voice was hoarse. He looked at her with something almost like horror. “Were you not going to tell me?”

Imogen pressed her eyes together, striving for control. “I—wanted to tell you.”

How she had wanted to! Her body had rebelled against her; she had been ill, weak, fretful. All she had wanted was Gavin. She wanted to burrow deep into his arms, her head pillowed in that particular kink between neck and shoulder, breathing in the comfortable, familiar scent of him, of paint and charcoal and laundry soap.

A dozen times she had nearly trumped up some pretext to go to town. Each time, on the verge of ordering the carriage, she had balked, thinking of Arthur, standing across from them on that fetid street, of Gavin and his career, of all the children who had never come to term.

“But you didn’t,” said Gavin. He looked as though someone had struck him in the stomach, hard.

Unsteadily, Imogen said, “I did not know that I would keep it.” Her hand rested instinctively on the curve of her waist, where the maid had helped her let out the seams of her dress just this morning. “I never have before. When I was younger. There were two … disappointments.”

Disappointments. That was what Arthur had called them, blotting out the messy medical reality of it, the tears, the pain, the bloody towels. This time, she knew that a miscarriage would, in all practicality, be a blessing, making the past a nullity, wiping out the evidence of her sin. It made sense, she knew.

But the thought of it filled her with horror.

Against all reason, she wanted this child, wanted it with a fierce yearning, wanted to hold its tiny body in her arms and kiss its downy head.

Gavin stared down at the swell of her skirts. “A child,” he said, and his voice was thick with wonder. “Our child.”

“Our child,” Imogen echoed softly.

The words were bittersweet.

She put a hand tentatively on his sleeve. Even that slight touch was a small torture, the familiar feel of his arm stabbing her with longing. “Don’t you see? Arthur will know it couldn’t be his. If there is—if there is retribution, it should not fall on you.”

She had thought it through, again and again, hour after tortured hour. Once her condition became impossible to hide, it would be all too clear to Arthur that the child couldn’t possibly be his. Current fashions helped; the widely belling skirts would hide her growing stomach for a time, but she had perhaps a month, or two at most, before it developed to a point where reefing up her top hoop would no longer serve.

Jane, Imogen was quite sure, already suspected. Suspected, but hadn’t yet had the nerve to ask right out.

Of course, Jane would have no reason to know that the child wasn’t Arthur’s. She had been even nastier than usual the last time Imogen had been with child; it was more likely jealousy than delicacy that had stilled her tongue. She hated the idea that Imogen might present Arthur with a child.

It took Gavin a moment to make sense of what she was saying. “No, not on me,” he said, his voice heavy. “Just on you and our child.”

Imogen lowered her head. “I have thought about this a great deal,” she said quietly. “Arthur will not want a scandal. There is every chance he will acknowledge the child as his.” What other choice did they have? “What private censure he heaps upon me I can bear.”

It was separation from Gavin that was the hardest part; if she could bear that, anything Arthur might say would have little power to hurt her.

“No,” said Gavin. “No.”

“You must see—” Imogen began, but Gavin silenced her by grasping her hand, holding it tight in his.

“Come away with me,” he said.

Imogen stared up at him, her eyes searching his face. “You can’t mean that.”

“Can’t I?” His face cleared, the lines at the corners of his mouth lifting, his pale eyes alive with sudden light. “Come away with me. Far away. We’ll start fresh, together.”

The words were like an incantation, like a conjurer’s charm. Imogen couldn’t look away. In the golden light of Gavin’s eyes she could see them, frolicking together through a landscape of impossible verdure, forever enchanted, forever young.

In a Shakespeare play, perhaps, with a deus ex machina to make everything right at the end. In the real world, she was married to Arthur and he had every right to pursue her to the full extent of the law.

Ruefully, she shook her head. “It can’t be done.”

“Never say can’t.” Gavin’s fingers tightened on hers. His face hardened. “What’s impossible is your thinking I would leave you to stay here, after—”

“What other choice is there?” Imogen looked hopelessly up at him, feeling the weight of the world upon her. She felt suddenly absurdly tired. With an attempt at humor, she said, “Even in the old tales, it seldom ends well for the escaped lovers. Didn’t they try to burn Guinevere at the stake?”

Gavin’s face was set. “And didn’t Lancelot rescue her? Give me the credit you would he, and more for the not being in a tale. It will take some planning, but we can do it.…”

She could see his mind working, sorting through possibilities and permutations. “But what of your painting?”

“Painting be damned!” he said, recklessly casting aside the one thing he had worked for all these years.

“I’ll not leave you and the child to him.” His voice softened. “Do you think I could just walk away from my own child? I couldn’t do that any more than I could walk away from you.”

Imogen struggled for self-control. “I know you think that now, but in time…” She forced herself to put her deepest fears into words. “What if … this thing between us … doesn’t last? I have mistaken myself before.”

“I haven’t.” Gavin grasped her hands in his. She could feel the heat of his grip through her gloves. “Trust me,” he said. “Whatever difficulties may come, we’ll face them together, us two.”

The picture he painted was so alluring, so seductive, the two of them, hand in hand together against the world. “But.…”

Gavin glanced quickly over his shoulder, biting off a curse. “This is no place for this. Meet me tomorrow. In our old place.”

Now was the time to nip this madness in the bud before it could go further. Imogen opened her mouth to say no, but something in his expression stayed her. His expression, and the sound of steps approaching their alcove, forcing her hand.

In a breathless voice she said, “All right. Tomorrow.” Stepping hastily away from him, she said loudly, “The expression on the Madonna’s face, it captivates you, doesn’t it? Oh, Arthur! I was just showing Mr. Thorne Mr. Ruskin’s
Madonna and Child
.”

“Quite right!” Arthur nodded genially to Gavin.

Imogen kept her eyes on her husband, trying to keep her breathing in order, hoping the high color in her cheeks could be attributed to the warmth of the room.

Arthur contemplated the painting thoughtfully. “It is very much in your line, Thorne. I ought to have thought of it myself.” He gave a small, self-deprecating cough. “What would we do without the ladies, eh, Thorne?”

Gavin inclined his head ever so slightly. “Sir.”

“Mr. Thorne is, as you can see, transported beyond reach of words,” Imogen said lightly. She twined her arm through her husband’s, tilting her head up at him in a simulacrum of wifely devotion, hoping, desperately, that Gavin would follow her lead. “I suggest we leave him to it. I believe you promised me an ice.”

“And so I did.” Arthur patted her hand.

Imogen could feel Gavin watching them, watching Arthur claim her.

Turning to Gavin, Arthur said pleasantly, “I hope we can persuade you to visit us again soon. My wife and I should both be pleased to see you, shouldn’t we, my love?”

“Certainly,” Imogen murmured. Arthur’s hand felt like a lead weight on her arm.

“Thank you, sir,” said Gavin, and his accent was very strong. “I do believe I shall.”

Tomorrow. In our old place.

Imogen smiled brightly up at Arthur. “My ice?” she prompted.

“Yes, yes,” said her husband, and with a final, apologetic nod to Gavin led her away, chattering inconsequentially of this and that.

Imogen made the right sorts of noises, but she didn’t hear any of it.

All she could hear was Gavin’s voice, rough with emotion:

Come away with me.

London, 2009

“I can’t tell you how much longer he’ll be,” the librarian said apologetically. “You might want to come back tomorrow.”

“That’s all right,” said Julia vaguely. “I know him.”

She set off towards Nick’s corner of the room, with only the faintest idea of what she meant to say.

Are you trying to embezzle my hypothetical family treasure?
was hardly a conversation starter.

She couldn’t really accuse him of going behind her back when she was the one who hadn’t returned his calls, but it still felt a little creepy to find him there with the very books she had intended to use.

Logically, none of her suspicions made much sense. What was the benefit of it? Sure, establishing a provenance for the Tristan and Iseult painting would probably raise the price, but even with that she doubted it would command the kind of sum that might tempt a man toward fraud.

Unless, of course, it was a man for whom fraud was a way of life, a man looking for one easy out after another. Nick certainly had charm enough. Why work when you could smile and steal?

“Julia!” Nick looked deceptively scholarly in his wire-rimmed glasses, books scattered around him. He lowered his voice as the woman next to him glared. She had the harried look of a very senior grad student or a very junior lecturer. “Did they tell you at the shop that I’d be here?”

Did he really think she’d come running after him like Natalie?

“I just came to do some research,” said Julia coolly. “I gather that you had the same idea.”

Nick took in her little black dress. His brows went up. “That’s quite a dress for the library. Not that I’m complaining, mind you.”

Julia resisted the urge to tug on the hem. It was just a plain black sheath, nothing fancy, but in the V&A library, among all the researchers wearing jeans and T-shirts, the combination of black dress, pearls, and patent-leather sling-backs looked as exotic as a grass skirt and coconut bra.

Julia twitched the edges of her hot pink pashmina closer around her shoulders. “I’m meeting my father for dinner at seven.”

Nick tipped back in his chair. “Ah, right. The man who has consigned me to a lonely evening of snooker.”

Julia tipped her head towards the books. “You seem to have found other occupation.”