Chapter Ten

HERE’S A BONNY ONE OF SOME BOATS ON LOCH Fyne.” Oliver placed the painting on the worn sofa in the drawing room so that Haydon could better appreciate it. “That would be good for someone who fancies the water—don’t ye think?”

“Possibly,” Haydon allowed, critically examining the work. The brush strokes Genevieve had used were quick and soft, giving the boats and the loch a fluid, almost dreamy feeling.

“I like this one better,” declared Annabelle as she and Grace plopped a rendering of a vase of flowers onto a chair. The amethyst and pink blossoms were drooping slightly, and a single petal had fallen onto the linen of the table on which the vase stood, marring its otherwise pristine surface. “The flowers look so terribly sad—almost as if they were crying.” She sighed with pleasure.

Haydon had to agree. Genevieve made no effort to execute a precisely realistic rendition of what she saw, but instead filtered her work through her own emotions and sensibilities. The result was stirring.

“Here’s one that she painted of me and Simon last summer,” said Jamie, dragging his corner of the painting along the floor, while Simon supported the other.

“She said it was of two men getting ready to sail the world,” explained Simon proudly.

In the painting the two boys were sailing their little wooden ships upon a stream. They were shown from behind, with their clothes rumpled and their hair ruffled by the same wind that was fluffing the sails of their small boats. The scene was sunny and had an almost tangible lethargy to it, as if the afternoon would never end. But a narrow strip of clouds painted in the distance was ominously leaden, suggesting that the boys’ game, and perhaps by extension their childhood, would soon be brought to an end.

“I like this one.” Jack deposited a portrait of Charlotte on the sofa beside the painting of the boats. “It really looks like you, Charlotte.”

Charlotte regarded the painting with shy uncertainty, secretly pleased that Jack thought her as pretty as the girl on the canvas. “Do you think so?”

Genevieve had painted Charlotte seated in a chair, quietly reading a book. Her gown was drawn tight about her narrow waist before it fell in a generous puff to the floor, giving no hint of where her legs might be beneath it. But upon the floor by the hem of her skirts lay a single, creamy rose, with thorns protruding in sharp green spikes along its stem. If Charlotte bent to retrieve the rose, it seemed certain that she would prick herself upon its thorns. But if she left it where it lay, the rose would wither and die. It was a simple enough quandary to the casual observer, but Haydon found the image troubling, for he sensed that the rose was a metaphor for Charlotte’s crippled leg.

It was clear that Genevieve could not help but infiltrate her work with her private perception of the world around her. It was this seductive, haunting quality that Haydon hoped would make an indelible impression on prospective buyers.

“That’s the last of the wee ones,” huffed Doreen, planting another painting beside the two that were already precariously balanced upon the mantel. “Jack and Ollie will have to bring up the rest.”

Eunice planted her hands upon her plump hips as she inspected the makeshift exhibition. “There’s no more room in here, so we’ll have to start piling the rest of them around the dining room—”

“What in the world are you doing?” demanded an astonished voice.

Haydon’s chest seemed to constrict when he saw Genevieve standing in the doorway.

The flame-gold hair that had poured like warm silk over his hands and across his pillow the night before was now tightly pinned into a proper arrangement, and the dark, chastely buttoned gown she had selected would have been appropriate for the most formidable of dowagers to wear to a funeral. Had he not experienced the passion that had blazed between them, he might have thought he was in the presence of a virgin nun. Genevieve’s skin was pale and the dark circles that bruised the area beneath her eyes suggested that her night had been as sleepless as his. He knew it had taken courage for her to come down to the drawing room and face him, and he had no desire to make it any more difficult for her. All he sought now was to restore some security and comfort to her and her household.

Once he was certain she would not lose her home he would leave, so as not to put any of them at further risk.

“His lordship here thinks he can get someone to buy yer paintings,” said Doreen excitedly.

Oliver scratched his white head, unconvinced. “I suppose they’re a sight better than most o’ the dribble and rot some folk hang on their walls.”

“At least the people in them are decently dressed.” Eunice surveyed the canvasses with approval. “Ye could hang them anywhere and nae be ashamed, or need to drape a cloth over them when there are ladies and wee ones present.”

“If Haydon sells enough of them, then we’ll have the money to pay the bank and we won’t have to worry about being on the street,” added Jamie happily. “Isn’t that wonderful?”

Genevieve affected a frozen calm as she looked at Haydon. She had remained in her chamber for as long as she felt she could that morning, trying to summon the composure she needed in order to face him without betraying her shame over the intimacies they had shared the night before. Unfortunately, the sight of him coolly analyzing her precious paintings, which he had apparently ordered the rest of the household to dig through and line up around the house, shattered that composure.

“Why are you doing this?” Her voice was brittle.

“Because we need to find a way to meet your obligations to the bank,” Haydon replied. “I have been through all the other items that are stored in your cellar, and unfortunately, there is really nothing there of any consequence. Your paintings, however, are extremely well done. I believe if we can get a gallery to show your work, you will be able to sell enough canvases to satisfy a significant portion of your debt.”

“My work isn’t good enough to sell,” Genevieve informed him, feeling exposed and humiliated. Her work was very personal, and she had no illusions about its value. “It’s only portraits of the children and simple little scenes of boats and flowers and landscapes. No one would want to buy them. People prefer paintings that are grand and heroic in their subject matter.”

“Unless there are naked ladies in them,” piped Jamie. “People seem to like that.”

“Here now, that’s enough of that talk,” scolded Eunice.

“I believe you are wrong, Genevieve,” Haydon countered. “There is a growing movement away from painting gods and heroes and violent episodes of history and mythology. Your paintings reflect the scenes of your life—modest, quiet, fleeting moments, to which many people can easily relate. And more, they are suffused with emotion. One cannot look at any of your paintings without being drawn into them and feeling something.”

“He’s right, lass,” said Oliver. “I look at these boats here and I’m thinkin’, ’twould be nice to have fish for dinner tonight.”

“Ye know there’s no fish to be had tonight,” Eunice scolded. “It’s Sunday.”

Genevieve stared warily at Haydon, wondering if he was being sincere. Deep within, it pleased her to think that he had looked at her paintings and thought that they were more than just the pleasant work of a woman who amused herself by dabbling with a paintbrush. She had sketched and painted for as long as she could remember, but after her father died and she had taken Jamie in, her painting had changed dramatically. Isolated and afraid, she had needed some way of expressing her joys and fears and frustrations, and painting had become that venue. Every work within that drawing room held special significance to her that went far beyond the depiction of its subject matter. It was as if her happiness and her suffering were saturated into the very paint, and each stroke bonded some small part of her forever to the canvas.

Was it possible that Haydon was able to sense the passion with which she had created these canvases? And if he could, did that mean that perfect strangers would be able to recognize it as well, and be willing to pay for them?

No, she suddenly realized, angry with herself for being so foolish. “No one in Inveraray would ever host an exhibition showing the work of a woman,” she told him flatly. “Nor would anyone here think that my work was of any value. People may be willing to pay me for painting their children’s portraits, but that is far different from purchasing my other work solely based on its own merits.”

“You’re right,” Haydon agreed. “But I do not intend to secure an exhibit for your work in Inveraray. There is not enough of a market here to command the prices I believe your paintings warrant. I am going to try to arrange for a showing in Glasgow.”

It was clear to Genevieve that Haydon did not understand the intrinsic male exclusivity of the art world. “No art dealer in Glasgow will grant a woman artist an exhibition either.”

“Which might be a problem, were I to reveal that this work is by a woman.” Haydon stood in front of the portrait of Charlotte, considering. “I’m thinking a French name would work well. In my experience, Scottish art dealers have a great fondness for representing something that was created elsewhere. It instantly gives the work a certain credibility and mystique.”

“That’s true for them that buys the paintings as well,” said Eunice. “Lord Dunbar’s house was full of all kinds of pictures, and not one of them was by a good, honest Scotsman. They all came from Italy and France and England—as if those lads know more about slappin’ paint on a piece of cloth than our own.” She huffed with disapproval.

“Are you suggesting that we say that my paintings were created by a Frenchman?” Genevieve wasn’t certain she cared for that idea.

“I realize it isn’t the perfect solution,” Haydon acknowledged. “But if we hope to secure a showing of your work and create some interest in it, I believe that is our best strategy.”

“I think it’s very romantic,” Annabelle decided with approval. “French names sound so elegant.”

“I think they sound silly,” said Simon. “Like someone is trying to spit something up from the back of their throat.”

“I won’t do it, Genevieve, unless you are in agreement.” Haydon regarded her intently. “But I believe this is your best chance of raising the money to pay off your debts.”

Genevieve stared at her precious canvases haphazardly arranged around the drawing room. Each one represented some private facet of her life, and by extension, her children’s lives. She didn’t care for having her world put on display for others to gawk at and analyze and possibly ridicule. And she found the idea of having her work accredited to some fictional man, because the fact that it had been created by a woman undermined its merit in the eyes of others, was truly offensive.

Jamie, Annabelle, Grace, Charlotte, Simon, and Jack were watching her, waiting for her to make her decision. Their expressions were utterly trusting, as if they believed that should she refuse to sell her paintings, then she would just come up with some other way to pay her debts and keep their household going. Oliver, Eunice, and Doreen looked more concerned. They had a far better understanding of the precariousness of their situation.

Ultimately, she realized she had little choice.

“Very well, Lord Redmond,” she said, lamely trying to instill some fragment of formality back into their relationship. “Just tell me with what name you would like me to sign them.”

 

ALFRED LYTTON TOOK OFF HIS SPECTACLES, POLISHED them vigorously with his crumpled handkerchief, and then wired them around his generously sized ears once more.

“Extraordinary,” he murmured, bending to take a closer look at the painting. “Utterly extraordinary.” He straightened suddenly and jerked his spectacles off again. “You say this Boulonnais is a friend of yours, Mr. Blake?”

“An old friend,” Haydon assured him. “We met some ten years ago when I was traveling in the south of France. Of course, at that time his work was completely unknown. I had the privilege of visiting him at the crumbling old farmhouse he still uses for his home and studio. Even then, I had the sense that he was going to develop into a very fine artist. I had no idea at that time, however, just how great his talent would be.”

“Indeed.” Mr. Lytton raked his gaze over the five paintings that Haydon had brought to his gallery.

“Of course, when I wrote to him about the idea of exhibiting his work in Scotland, he was not immediately enthusiastic.” Haydon wanted the art dealer to feel as if he were achieving a remarkable coup by arranging the exhibition. “I’m afraid it is well known that he is something of a recluse. Never married. Rarely ventures from his home. He deplores everyone and anything that might take him from his work, you see. Likes to paint at all hours of the day or night, without stopping to eat or sleep. I suppose one might say he is a bit of an eccentric, really.”

“As so many artists are,” Mr. Lytton remarked sagely. “It makes one wonder if madness is the price of genius.” He studied the paintings further. “I have heard of Boulonnais,” he murmured, lest Haydon think he was not up-to-date on the current talk of the art world, “but this is the first time I have had the pleasure of actually seeing his work. There is no question that it is most impressive. His sensibility toward his subject is quite unique.”

Haydon smiled. He had anticipated that Mr. Lytton would feign familiarity with his phantom artist rather than admit ignorance. “As I’m sure you are aware, the name Georges Boulonnais is presently being heralded amongst the salons and art dealers of Paris. His works are sold the very day they go on exhibit, with many collectors begging for a chance to bid on whatever he might produce next. The esteemed art critic, Monsieur Lachapelle of Le Parisien, has predicted that Boulonnais will quickly become one of the most celebrated artists of this century.”

“One would have to be blind not to see that,” agreed Mr. Lytton. “I am most grateful to you, Mr. Blake, for bringing your association with this wonderful artist to my attention. I have no doubt that I will be able to sell all five of these paintings. The Duke of Argyll is perpetually looking for interesting work to add to his already impressive collection, and I shall be pleased to invite him for a private viewing as soon as possible. I’m sure we can arrange an exhibition of any other works Monsieur Boulonnais may choose to send to me.”

“How refreshing to meet a man who is only interested in promoting art within his community, rather than realizing his maximum potential for profit. You are a credit to your profession,” Haydon told him.

Mr. Lytton blinked, confused.

“I have no doubt you will get an acceptable response here and I respect you for wanting to keep the exhibition within Inveraray instead of arranging for a much larger showing at your affiliate gallery in Glasgow.” Haydon rose as if their meeting was finished. “There is no question that once a burgeoning artist such as this is introduced to the art world in a major city, the spirituality of the art becomes lost amidst the frenzy of exposure and profit. One need only look at what happened at Monsieur Boulonnais’s latest showing in Paris to understand.”

Mr. Lytton’s eyes widened. “What happened?”

“Why, every work was sold within hours, with people begging the dealer to accept bids of two and three times the listed price. Such spectacles may draw celebrity and financial gain to the gallery, but in my opinion they do little to preserve the sanctity of the work itself—as I’m sure you must agree.”

“To a certain extent, yes.” Mr. Lytton swiftly began to reassess his potential profit on the venture. “But I also believe that great art deserves to be shared with as large an audience as possible,” he qualified carefully. “Moreover, such an enthusiastic response can only help to secure an artist’s financial future, which in turn provides him with the time and the means to create more momentous works. I can assure you, Mr. Blake, that I am thinking only of Monsieur Boulonnais’s welfare when I suggest that perhaps we are being hasty in limiting ourselves to an exhibit in Inveraray. I feel upon reflection that an exhibition in Glasgow is far more appropriate. If you are in agreement, I would be happy to arrange it.”

Haydon looked doubtful. “Do you really believe that will be better?”

“Absolutely. An artist of the caliber of Monsieur Boulonnais should be introduced to the Scottish art world in a major city of industry and refinement. Glasgow is a far better choice for his inaugural exhibition. Shall we aim for a date in, say, eight months?”

Haydon thought about the bank’s impending foreclosure on Genevieve’s house.

“Unfortunately, I’m afraid Monsieur Boulonnais is quite temperamental, and such a delay would only give him time to change his mind,” he said, apologetic.

“But even my gallery is fully booked until summer of next year. I couldn’t possibly arrange an exhibition of Boulonnais’s work before then,” protested Mr. Lytton.

“Then I’m afraid I shall have to decline your offer of an exhibition,” said Haydon. “I have at this moment over twenty paintings in my possession ready to be exhibited. As there is no shortage of dealers in Paris anxious to take them, Boulonnais has instructed me that if they cannot be shown immediately here, then I am to return them to France. It is a pity we could not come to some arrangement.” He extended his hand.

“Twenty paintings, you say?” Mr. Lytton’s myopic eyes fairly danced as he considered his share of the profits on such a sale. “In that case, Mr. Blake, let us see how quickly we can have them crated and sent to Glasgow. I do believe I can arrange with my associates to find some space to hang them.”

 

JACK SCOWLED AT THE WORDS ON THE PAGE BEFORE him, looking as if he might tear the leaf out at any moment and shred it in frustration. Finally he slammed the book closed and shoved it across the table.

“I’m finished.” He folded his arms and regarded Genevieve defiantly.

“Would you like me to review any of the words with you?”

“I know them all,” he assured her, his jaw set.

“But we always read until teatime,” objected Simon, peering up from his book. “The clock says we’ve another fifteen minutes yet.”

“I don’t give a damn what the bloody clock says,” Jack snapped. “I’m finished.”

“I don’t want to read anymore either,” said Jamie, wanting to be supportive of Jack. “Can we do something else now, Genevieve?”

Genevieve hesitated. If she told the children they had to continue reading it would now seem like a punishment, and she didn’t want that. “You may put your books away and spend the next few minutes drawing, if you wish. Since you are finished for the day, Jack, would you mind coming with me? I want to show you something.” She rose and went down the corridor to her father’s library, leaving him to follow.

“I have a book here that I think you might enjoy,” she said, scanning the heavy leather-bound volumes crowding the shelves. She pulled a large, worn edition down from the top shelf and handed it to him.

Jack frowned at the mysterious gold letters forming words on the cover, pretending to read them.

“It’s called Ships Through the Ages.” Genevieve took the book and opened it, revealing a page in which a magnificent Viking ship with a menacing serpent’s head at the prow sliced through the waters of an azure ocean.

“Bloody hell,” swore Jack, impressed. “That looks just like a dragon.”

“That is a Viking ship from nearly a thousand years ago. The Vikings were known as the Lords of the Sea, because of their remarkable ability to build light, streamlined ships that could sail the most dangerous seas and strike terror into the hearts of those who saw them coming. They were extraordinary explorers and brutal conquerors. At one point, great parts of Scotland and Ireland fell beneath their rule.”

Jack studied the macabre ship in fascination.

“One of the most ingenious aspects of the Viking ship was the complete symmetry of the bow and stern,” Genevieve continued, pointing them out on the engraving. “While this gave the craft a graceful look, it also played a role in its movement. The mast was placed precisely in the center of the ship, thereby enabling it to easily sail forward or backward, which was of great benefit during battle. The fact that the ships weren’t heavy meant that if they were traveling on a river, and waterfalls or rapids blocked their passage, the Vikings would lower the mast, pull in the oars and rudder and roll the ship over land, using tree trunks beneath it.”

Jack tried to imagine plucking a ship from the water and pushing it along land. “They must have been bloody strong.”

“They were strong and determined,” Genevieve agreed, electing not to suggest that he should try to curb his use of profanity.

She was well aware that Jack did not yet feel as if he belonged with her and her family, and she had no desire to further alienate him by constantly criticizing his language and manners. His attempt to help her by leading the other children on their failed robbery attempt, however misguided, had demonstrated to her that he did harbor at least some measure of concern toward her and the members of her household, whether he realized it or not. It was this that had kept him from running away—coupled with his ever-growing fondness for Charlotte.

Although Jack had remained steadfastly silent on the details of his past, Genevieve knew that it had been both hard and brutal. The thin white scar that snaked down his left cheek was evidence of a savage fight, and, on the night of his arrival, Oliver had seen the faded scars of a whip marking his thin back as he peeled away his filthy prison clothes. Genevieve suspected it was this sickening familiarity with fear and violence that drew Jack to Charlotte.

All of the children had suffered abuse at the hands of adults before they came into Genevieve’s care, but it was Charlotte who had been damaged the most physically and emotionally, and who would never be able to conceal her injury from the rest of the world. Her frailty roused Jack’s protective instincts in the same way he had been motivated to help Haydon the night he escaped from the prison. This inherent empathy for others touched Genevieve deeply, and made her ever more determined to keep the boy within the realm of her protection until he was fully educated and equipped to make a life of his own.

“The Vikings came to know a great deal about sailing and navigation,” she continued. “They had to be able to read the wind and the waves, and to use the position of the sun and the moon to help them understand where they had come from and where they were going. They thirsted for greater lands and riches, and in order to find it, they had to constantly expand their knowledge. That determination enabled them to pack some dried meat and fresh water into a ship and sail across the ocean all the way to America—without even knowing what they would find, or if they would in fact ever come to land. On the way they battled terrible storms and illness and heat and cold. And still they kept going, when most men would have simply given up and gone home.”

Jack stared in silence at the image of the ship.

“The thing we often forget, Jack,” Genevieve continued softly, “is that everyone comes into this world with very little knowledge. No one is born knowing how to read or write, or build a ship or sail the ocean. These are all things we have to learn. Some people have the advantage of starting earlier than others, and so it may seem that they are smarter than us, but in fact they are not. They have just had more time to absorb the information.”

He was quiet for a long moment. “They think I’m stupid,” he finally growled in a low, angry voice.

“They don’t think that at all,” Genevieve countered. “Jamie and Simon are fascinated by everything you do and say, because to them, you seem so worldly and experienced. Annabelle and Grace are old enough to remember a time when they couldn’t read either, so they understand. And Charlotte is so fiercely devoted to you, she thinks everything about you is absolutely perfect.”

Jack said nothing.

“I realize it has been difficult for you to give up the independence you had when you were living on the streets,” Genevieve acknowledged, refraining from pointing out that he would have had far less freedom at this moment were he incarcerated in a prison cell. “And I know you dislike having to study. You think you have managed well enough without knowing how to read or spell or add two numbers together on a piece of paper, and so you can’t see why you should be bothered trying to learn these things now, when you are almost an adult.”

“Lots of people can’t read,” he informed her with brusque authority. “And they manage. You find ways.”

“I’m sure you do. But there is so much you will miss if you don’t learn to read, Jack. Books can tell you how to build a ship and cross the ocean. They can show you the muscles and organs inside a man’s body, or describe the greatest paintings in Italy, or tell you what life was like five hundred years ago. Books can open up worlds for you that you may have never imagined and may never see otherwise. Beyond that, knowing how to read and cipher will help you to make a success of yourself in this world.”

“You don’t understand.” His brow twisted in frustration. “I’m older, so I should know more than them. And when they see me lookin’ at some dumb word that looks so simple to them, and I don’t know what it is, even though you’ve already told me five times, they can’t help but think I’m stupid. Bloody hell, even I think I’m stupid.”

“First of all, there is no doubt that you’re exceptionally clever,” countered Genevieve adamantly. “No one could have survived on the streets as long as you have and not be gifted with plenty of shrewdness and intelligence. Learning to read and write takes time, and that’s all there is to it. If it bothers you to have your lessons with the other children, then you and I can study privately in here. That way you don’t need to be concerned about what others are thinking. Would you prefer that?”

Jack looked at her in surprise. He had not thought that Genevieve would be interested in going to such lengths to help him. He had thought she would tell him to just do the best he could and not to mind the other children, and leave the matter at that. After all, why should she care whether or not he learned to read or write?

She was watching him expectantly, waiting for his answer. And suddenly it seemed very important to him that he not disappoint her.

“Yes,” he said. “That would be better.”

“Very well, then. You may keep that book, if you like. Although you may not be able to read it yet, there are lots of fine pictures of ships in it that you will enjoy. After we have our lesson, we’ll take some time to look at them and I’ll tell you more about the men who built them and all the wonderful places they visited. Perhaps one day you will travel to faraway countries on a ship. Maybe you will even go to America.” She smiled. “Then you will write to me and tell me about all the marvelous things you have seen.”

Jack stared at the image of the Viking ship. It had never occurred to him that he would ever set foot on a ship. He had never even imagined that he might one day see the world beyond Scotland. But hearing Genevieve speak of it made him feel strangely excited, as if this was a dream that might well be within his reach. And why not? he wondered fiercely. Genevieve said he was smart, and he knew he was a hard worker when it suited him. Perhaps one day he would find work on a ship, and spend his days with nothing but the sky for a roof and the waves rocking beneath him. He studied the turquoise ocean in the engraving and wondered what it would be like to swim in warm water with the sun sparkling on the waves like fallen stars.

Genevieve resisted the impulse to reach out and brush a dark brown curl off Jack’s temple. He seemed so young and vulnerable to her in that moment, the desire to wrap her arms around him and hold him was great. But he was not a little boy, she reminded herself, and he would surely resent her attempt to treat him as one. He was a fourteen-year-old youth who had lived a life of constant hunger, instability and need, who had managed to survive on the streets with nothing but his wits and pure determination. In some ways, Jack was far older and more worldly than she was. She only hoped he would ultimately decide to stay with her—at least until he didn’t need her protection or her guidance any longer.

“Genevieve.” Jamie was giggling as he called through the door. “We have something for you.”

She smiled, wondering what game the children were playing. “I suppose we have locked ourselves up in here long enough, Jack, and the children are anxious for their tea.”

Jack closed the precious book on ships. “That’s all right.” He was feeling strangely privileged at having been able to spend some time with Genevieve alone. “Can we look at this book again tomorrow?”

“I would like that very much.”

“Genevieve, let us in!” pleaded a chorus of voices in the hall, as they banged upon the door.

“Come in,” she said.

The door burst open and the children practically shoved Haydon inside.

“Tell her!” they shrieked, dancing around him. “Tell her right away!”

Haydon reached into his coat pocket and withdrew an envelope, which he placed in Genevieve’s hand.

“What’s this?” she asked, puzzled.

“Two tickets for the coach to Glasgow. We leave on Friday of next week.”

Her brows drew together in bewilderment. “We’re going to Glasgow?”

“We are indeed. The eminent artist Georges Boulonnais is about to have his inaugural Scottish exhibition next Saturday evening. We must select fifteen more of your best paintings and take them over to Mr. Alfred Lytton’s gallery tomorrow. He is going to have them shipped to his affiliate gallery in Glasgow, and they will see to it that the works are suitably framed.”

“But we can’t afford to go to Glasgow,” Genevieve protested. She was having trouble coming to grips with what Haydon was telling her, so her mind focused on the more mundane aspects of his pronouncement. “We don’t have the money.”

“Actually, we do. Mr. Lytton was astute enough to realize that it would be a major coup if the reclusive Monsieur Boulonnais were to make an appearance at this opening. While I could not guarantee such a thing, I did mention that my eccentric friend might be more apt to attend were I there. Since I am newly married and most reticent to travel without my charming wife, Mr. Lytton was kind enough to offer to pay for all our expenses.”

Genevieve stared at him in disbelief. The idea of actually seeing her work for sale in an art gallery was simply inconceivable. “But I cannot leave the children—”

“Of course ye can, lass,” interrupted Oliver. “I’ll take good care of them.”

“Dinna let that thought frighten ye,” said Eunice, chortling. “Doreen and I will make sure the children are warm and fed and in their beds by eight o’clock. Ye just go to Glasgow and have a grand time. Dinna worry about a thing.”

“Just think,” said Simon, grabbing her hand with excitement, “your paintings are going to be on display for the whole world to see!”

“Yet no one will know that you are the true artist,” reflected Annabelle dreamily. “One day I shall write a play about it and then perform in it, without ever revealing your true identity.”

“And I’ll make all the beautiful costumes for you,” offered Grace, “and people will be so taken by my designs that they will become all the rage in Paris soon afterward, and I shall become rich and famous.” She pursed her lips together suddenly, staring at Genevieve in disapproval. “You aren’t going to wear that to Glasgow, are you? You look like you’re dressed for your own burial.”

Genevieve’s hands flew self-consciously to her plain black skirts. “I do?”

“I can’t wear black,” Annabelle informed her with grave earnestness. “It makes my skin look horribly sallow.”

“Genevieve has other gowns to wear,” Charlotte assured them.

“But they’re all dark and ugly,” protested Annabelle with childlike candor. “And worn.”

“I’m sure she has one that doesn’t look too bad.” Charlotte regarded Genevieve hopefully. “You do have something nice, don’t you, Genevieve?”

“Does this mean that we have the money to pay the bank?” wondered Jamie, who could not see anything wrong with Genevieve’s dress.

“Not yet,” Haydon replied, “but I strongly suspect that once Genevieve’s paintings are handsomely framed and hung, the public will instantly be drawn to them and the works will sell. It may take a while, but—”

“And then we’ll have lots of money to pay the bank and we can all live here forever!” squeaked Simon, ecstatic.

“At the very least we should make enough to satisfy the bank for a while,” Haydon agreed, careful to temper their expectations. “But if this exhibition goes well, there is no reason why we couldn’t arrange others, in Edinburgh, and maybe London. We shall just have to see how this one goes.”

“It seems to me ye’re going to be in need of some flouncier finery if ye’re going to be paradin’ about Glasgow as the newly wedded Mrs. Blake.” Eunice studied Genevieve up and down with a critical eye. “Seein’ as how yer husband is supposed to be an important friend of the artist and all.”

“Well, I don’t have anything better, and there’s no money to be wasted on such nonsense.” Genevieve’s tone was brisk and pragmatic. Secretly, however, she was wishing she had something elegant to wear to the opening. It had been years since she had enjoyed the profound luxury of a new dress, and she had not had a new evening gown since before her father’s death.

“Here, Eunice.” Haydon pressed several bank notes into Eunice’s hand. “You and Doreen take Genevieve shopping, and make sure she buys something nice for herself.”

Genevieve’s eyes grew round. “Where did you get that money?”

“Mr. Lytton gave me an advance against the sales. He said it was to help cover any expenses Monsieur Boulonnais might have, should he decide to travel to Glasgow. And right now,” he added, grinning broadly, “it seems that Monsieur Boulonnais is in need of a new gown.”

 

APPLE-GOLD LIGHT RIMMED THE DRAWN DRAPERIES of the main floor, sending a warm glimmer into the freezing darkness of the street. The heavy curtains effectively blocked the silhouettes of those who moved behind them, leaving Vincent staring in frustration at the home of Mr. and Mrs. Maxwell Blake.

It was only by a monumental force of will that he had managed to remain in the shadows when he had seen Haydon emerge from the front door earlier that day. His recognition of him had been immediate. Haydon had been a regular guest in his home for many years before Vincent learned that the perpetually drunken fool had helped himself to more than just the fine food and drink that Vincent so generously offered. Until then, Vincent had thought of him as little more than a trivial amusement, an insignificant but inevitable addition to any dinner or weeklong party in the country. Haydon played the role of the charming, insouciant younger brother of the Marquess of Redmond, the idle second son who had inherited all of the physical beauty of face and structure, but none of the discipline or wit required of men who actually want to make something of themselves in the world. His total lack of sobriety coupled with his undeniably handsome features and his inheritance made him utterly irresistible to women, who were drawn to him like wasps to a dollop of jam.

Vincent had been amused by the way the weaker sex contrived to throw themselves into Haydon’s path at every opportunity, seeking him out for a clandestine rendezvous on the terrace, or in the rose garden, or in some dark corner where they thought their urgent gropings and halfhearted protests would go unnoticed. Haydon’s conquests had been as much a form of entertainment as drinking or cards. To make it more of an event, Vincent had taken bets from the other gentlemen guests in the morning as to whose bed their drunken friend had heated the night before.

Vincent had been far from amused, however, the night Cassandra coldly informed him during a moment of pure hatred that his beloved five-year-old daughter had been sired by Haydon.

He had never thought of himself as a passionate man, capable of the capricious emotions of love and hate. He had always been cool, dignified, self-possessed, to the point where Cassandra had accused him of being frozen inside. But she was wrong. He had been cool to her, yes, because his spectacularly indulged wife had never been able to arouse any feelings within him beyond lust, for a time, and then disdain. But his love for Emmaline had surpassed any feelings he had ever held for anything else in his life. And when he learned that his precious daughter was in fact not his, but the result of some sweating, rutting tryst between his wife and a man whom Vincent had tolerated but despised, it was as if the heart that had so recently learned the exquisite pleasure of loving someone had been torn from his chest and crushed to a pulp.

What he had not understood was that love could not be eradicated merely by deciding it was over.

And that there was a far worse pain still to come.

The wash of gold rimming the windows began to be extinguished, room by room, until finally the entire house stood silent and black. Vincent thought of Haydon lying upon a warm bed inside, perhaps with his body pressing against the delicately lush form of the charitable Miss MacPhail, who had so selflessly taken it upon herself to rescue and protect him. He was alive and warm and safe, while Emmaline lay cold and rotting in the ground. The injustice of it was unbearable. Vincent wanted to storm in there and plunge a knife into Haydon’s chest where he lay, to see his eyes widen with horror and surprise and watch as the blood poured hot and red across the sheets and onto the floor.

Patience, he told himself silently. You must be patient.

Now that he had found Haydon comfortably ensconced in his false identity as Maxwell Blake, husband and father, the mode of his demise had taken a new shape. Vincent had been somewhat alarmed when he had watched him climb into a carriage earlier that day. He had thought that perhaps Haydon was abandoning his masquerade in Inveraray and seeking refuge elsewhere. But after following him to an art gallery where he stayed for well over an hour, he observed Haydon’s return to this house. What had intrigued Vincent most was the warm welcome he had received upon his return. The door had swung open and an old man clapped him on the shoulder as if he were a lad, while a jumble of children of assorted heights and ages had crowded around, grabbing him by the hands as if they couldn’t wait to drag him off somewhere.

The memory of Emmaline grabbing at his own hands with her chubby little fingers suddenly filled his mind. She was not quite three years old, and she was pulling upon him as she toddled down the corridor. Where’s the puppy, Daddy? she crooned, leading him to the room in which she had hidden one of her stuffed toys for him to find. It was a favorite game of theirs, and no matter how obvious the toy’s placement, Vincent would always make a great show of investigating beneath every chair and sofa, picking up cushions and examining beneath small ornaments, huffing and frowning and looking perplexed, much to Emmaline’s delight.

He could not remember precisely when he had first pulled his hand away from her. The memory was blurred because she continued to reach for him, day after day, week after week, pleading with him to follow her. Until the excruciating moment when she finally realized that her daddy didn’t want to hold her hand anymore—or hug her, or kiss her, or press his cheek to hers and call her his little princess and hold her tight. Or search for her little puppy.

After that she never reached for him again.

He blinked hard, forcing himself back to the present.

Death is too easy for you, you bastard.