Chapter 4
Elsie meant to avoid the ballroom, for she sensed the man was uneasy with her presence. But when she found herself wandering the main floor and spied that narrow strip of light beneath the ballroom door, she simply couldn’t resist spying to see what Alexander was doing.
Monsieur Desmarais had demanded complete privacy, claiming that he could not work with disruptions and wanted to surprise Miss Elizabeth with the final creation. Elsie had been slightly amused, knowing precisely why no one was allowed into the room, but she remained silent. There was something about his assistant, a compelling combination of strength and vulnerability that made her want to protect him.
It had been two nights since she’d discovered Monsieur’s secret. She found it was beyond her control not to peek into the room, knowing Alexander was hard at work on her mural. Besides, she liked the company, such as it was, in these lonely, dark hours when the rest of the world lay asleep. Her bare feet were soundless as she walked across the cool marble, and she was about to reach for the door when an odd sound stopped her cold. Her entire body became attuned to a noise coming from within the ballroom that sounded painfully familiar.
Silently, she opened the door, hardly daring to breathe, until she could better hear the heartrending sound of a man’s despair. Alexander stood, one arm straight against the mural wall, one hand dangling, fisted tightly, by his side, his head bent, his body shaking. He was weeping.
She could not count how many times she had heard such a sound coming from her father’s room, the quiet agony of a man whose heart was breaking but who was trying desperately not to let anyone know.
In a moment, Elsie was by his side, looking helplessly up at him as he stared with anguish at the wall. “Alexander, what is it?”
He startled, as if he hadn’t sensed her there, then rubbed his face against his sleeve in one quick motion.
“Are you all right? Is there something I can get for you? Monsieur?”
He shook his head, his cheeks suddenly ruddy with embarrassment or perhaps anger that she’d discovered him in his weakness. He didn’t look at her, still stared at the wall, and finally, Elsie followed his gaze and gasped.
“Oh,” she breathed, taking in what he’d drawn in fine detail. Two little boys climbed up the rock, the smaller one holding out a sturdy hand to help up the bigger lad. It was the expressions that were so moving; that little boy’s eagerness tinged with hero-worship, the older one’s accepting help he probably didn’t need. It was there, in a few finely executed lines of charcoal, living, breathing boys that she could almost hear; she could almost picture the water glistening on their skinny little bodies.
“My goodness,” she said, staring in disbelief at the drawing. She knew it would be even more magnificent when he painted the scene. It was almost painfully beautiful. No wonder it brought him to tears, for there was something about those boys that tore at the heart, some intangible quality she couldn’t define. “They’re beautiful, Alexander.”
He looked at her sharply, then almost as quickly looked back to the mural with a strange intensity. Elsie stared at his profile, and realized she was in the presence of a masculine beauty she’d never before seen. His jaw was well-defined, sharp and finely sculpted, his nose aristocratic, his mouth almost too perfect, as if an unattainable ideal manufactured by an artist. His cheeks, still slightly damp from his tears, were ruddy, and his eyes, which stared so intently at the wall in front of him, were framed by a strong brow and shadowed by thick, straight lashes.
“I shall never tell your secret,” she said fervently, wanting to put an end to some of his torture. “And I’ll tell you why. First, I made a promise to you, one that I will honor. Second, if I did reveal your secret, my beautiful mural would never be finished.”
He seemed to relax, but still made no move to continue working. Always when she spoke to him directly, he seemed to tense, as if her words were battering him and he was bracing himself for the blows. Elsie suspected she made him nervous, that he was not used to working in front of clients.
“Do you mind my visits? I imagine it gets rather lonely here working by yourself. Do you wish me to leave? I’d quite understand if you did.”
His finely carved mouth moved slightly, almost as if he were trying not to smile. And he shook his head.
“Good then. I shan’t bother you any more. I’ll just read and, well”—she said impishly—“does my talking bother you? I would like to talk to you.” She walked over to her couch and sat upon it in a ladylike pose, part of her knowing she should leave. “Would you like to know why I wander about the manor house at night like some manner of ghost?”
He inclined his head, which Elsie took as an affirmative. “I had a twin sister and she died in her sleep.
In my bed
,” she said with dramatic emphasis, for she didn’t want his pity. “Ever since then, I simply cannot bear to sleep in a bed. I drive the poor staff here quite crazy, for I seem to fall asleep in the most unlikely places.”
Alexander listened as the girl talked about her sister, about their adventures, and found himself becoming enchanted by her. She shouldn’t be here, in this room, with him, wearing her very virginal nightclothes. She shouldn’t stand so close to him, close enough that he could smell her sweet scent. She seemed so utterly unaware that she should not be alone with a strange man in the middle of the night. How could a girl be so completely innocent? Or was she one of those women who thought him a boy because he could not speak, someone without a man’s needs or thoughts or lust?
She certainly wasn’t dressed seductively in that nightgown and robe that covered her from beneath her chin to her toes. But he couldn’t stop his thoughts from moving in a carnal direction. She might be innocent, but there was a woman with a woman’s curves hiding beneath that silly nightdress and he couldn’t stop his mind from imagining what she looked like, what she would feel like.
It had been a long time since he’d been with a woman and she’d been far too tempting, standing next to him, looking up at him in concern as he shed his shameful tears.
What a fool he was, crying all these years later, crying for the boy he’d been, for the life he’d had. Those two boys were long dead, that life long gone, but it still hurt like hell when he allowed himself to think of it. What had possessed him to paint the figures, he did not know. He only knew he had to. It wasn’t a choice. He
had
to. Sometimes it happened like that. He’d be drawing or painting and stand back and see something he wasn’t even aware was there. It was magical, when it overcame him, as if someone else were inside him, taking over, creating a beauty he was not even aware he was capable of.
When he’d seen what he had drawn on that rock, he was as moved as Miss Elsie had been. Moved to humiliating tears, it would seem.
Monsieur would be furious, but at the moment, Alexander didn’t care. He needed those two boys, their smiling faces, their innocence. He needed to capture that moment, that last bit of happiness. He didn’t know why it was so important, he only knew it was.
“Alexander?”
He stiffened, then forced himself to relax, reminding himself that she was one of the few people who didn’t care if he never uttered a word. He turned to face her and caught his breath. She should leave. Now. He wasn’t certain he’d ever seen anyone more lovely than the girl sitting there with her knees drawn up and her toes peeking beneath that lacy hem. He knew it was foolishness, for he’d been seduced by women wearing filmy nightdresses that left nothing to the imagination. He’d been waylaid by women who threw off their robes, revealing gloriously naked bodies. And yet, nothing had ever affected him the way this girl did, sitting on that couch, arms wrapped around her knees, looking at him as if... as if he were normal.
“Would you care for something to eat? I get famished in the nighttime and cook always leaves something for me in the ice box. Are you hungry?”
She was not only lovely, she was
nice
. He nodded, smiling broadly, for no one other than Monsieur had ever asked after him, had ever wondered if he were hungry or cold. Or lonely.
She padded off, her long braid bouncing from side to side like a metronome. He immediately felt her absence, and scowled. He liked working alone but last evening when she’d not appeared, he’d missed her presence. Any dream he’d had of a normal life, of falling in love, having a family and children, had been beaten down over the years. But once in a while, he felt a longing in his heart, a weakness in his soul, that made him dream about a home with a wife and children and happiness. A girl like Elsie could cruelly make a man long for things he would never have. Which was why he almost hoped she’d get distracted and not return. Ever.
Still, he couldn’t stop his smile when she returned with a plate laden with cold chicken and two apples. Two.
God help him.
Elsie startled awake from the breakfast table when a hand touched her arm.
“Miss Elizabeth, there’s a terrible row,” Mrs. Whitehouse said, looking worried. “In the ballroom. I know the staff has been banned, but I thought I should tell you. And Lord Huntington isn’t in the house.”
Elsie squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head to awaken herself. She hadn’t fallen asleep at the breakfast table in months. “I’ll see to it,” she said, wiping her face delicately with a napkin to remove any crumbs that might remain.
“It’s Monsieur Desmarais, and I think he’s yelling at that poor mute boy.”
Suddenly, Elsie’s heart began slamming in her breast. How dare Monsieur berate Alexander, when that poor man was doing all the artist’s work and he was taking all the credit. Elsie smoothed her skirts as she walked, giving her reflection a quick check just to be certain her simple coif was still intact, and marched to the ballroom. Indeed, there was yelling coming from inside the room.
“I do not do the people. You know this is true. This could ruin me. You have put everything in jeopardy. If you do not remove the boys, I will.”
Elsie barged into the room without knocking, her heart beating wildly in her chest as she took in the scene. Monsieur held a wet cloth in his hand and was approaching the mural, hellbent on removing the two boys. Alexander stood stiff, his body shaking with anger or frustration or agony, watching silently as Monsieur stalked with determination toward the wall.
“Monsieur Desmarais,” Elsie yelled pleasantly. “My goodness, what is all this hubbub?” She walked up to where Alexander stood, still stiff, breathing hard through flared nostrils. His hands were by his sides, his fists clenched so hard his arms shook.
“Ah, Miss Elsie,” the Frenchman said with forced pleasantness. “I am angry with myself, that is all. The eccentric artist in me. I never add the people to my scenes. Never. And I am angry that I have. It is not what you asked for, no? So I remove it immediately.”
Alexander’s jaw clenched again and again and his hands shook even more. Elsie stepped slightly in front of him and reached back, grasping one of his shaking hands in a desperate attempt to calm him. She could almost feel his agony, his desperation, his impotent rage.
“But you cannot,” Elsie said. “The boys are charming. A wonderful addition. I shall be heartbroken if you remove them, Monsieur. In fact, I insist they stay.”
She could hear Alexander’s breathing calm a bit, feel his fist relax slightly. She gave his hand one more reassuring squeeze before letting go and approaching the muralist. “Monsieur, they are so charming. I shall have the only original Desmarais mural with children. I adore it, I truly do.” She pouted for good effect, and Monsieur let out a long, beleaguered sigh.
“But now everyone will insist I do the same for them. I am known for my landscapes, not portraits.”
“The boys are such a small part of the mural, one tiny little bit of whimsy. Please, Monsieur.”
He shot Alexander one last dark look, then gave Elsie a courtly bow. “As you wish, Mademoiselle.”
Elsie beamed a smile. “Thank you, Monsieur.” Then she turned, still smiling and nearly had the breath knocked out of her by the intensity of the look Alexander gave her. She couldn’t read it, only knew it affected her on a strangely physical level, as if someone shot a bolt of lightning through her entire body. Her smile faltered slightly as she walked by, stunned by the unsettling feeling.
Behind her, she heard Monsieur Desmarais mutter in French, “You have nearly betrayed me, my boy. Do not do it again.” Apparently, Monsieur had forgotten Elsie spoke excellent French.