Chapter 22
While I generally dreaded society events—finding them to be tedious and the other guests to be overcritical—dinner parties were often the exception. Especially when they were hosted by Lady Bearsden. Charlotte’s great-aunt was not only acquainted with a wide range of interesting people, who invariably had more fascinating things to discuss than the usual small talk and petty gossip, but she also despised cruelty in all forms.
The fact that she was a collector of such gossip would seem to contradict this, but she’d admitted to me once that she only gathered tittle-tattle because it was amusing to be informed of everyone’s foibles, particularly at her age. In any case, since her niece and I had become friends, I knew I needn’t worry about suffering any slights from her other guests. She wouldn’t stand for it. And so I entered the drawing room of the town house she often rented off St. Andrew’s Square with great anticipation.
“My dear Mrs. Gage,” she exclaimed with delight from her chair near the door. Her white hair was piled up on top of her head in a style that seemed reminiscent of the wigs worn sixty years prior. She pushed to her feet with the aid of her gold figure-headed cane and then grasped both of my hands with her own, holding them wide so that she could examine me from head to toe, expectant abdomen and all. “You are looking positively radiant and as ripe as a cherry.”
“A very large cherry,” I quipped, blushing at her approval and the attention she was drawing.
She laughed brightly. “Any day now, isn’t it? I’m so very pleased you could come. And your doting husband, as well.” She beckoned him forward, releasing my hands so that she could offer them to Gage. “My Lumpy couldn’t hold a candle to you or your father in looks, but he was a good man nonetheless,” she proclaimed with a sigh, referring to her late husband with the mildly insulting nickname she always used.
Seeing that she’d latched on to Gage and would likely be monopolizing him for the foreseeable future, I turned to greet Charlotte as she approached. She shook her head at the sight of Lady Bearsden incorrigibly flirting with Gage. “Auntie does love the attention of a handsome young swain. She kept poor Mr. Aldridge at her side for a quarter of an hour before you arrived.” She nodded toward a man with the copper complexion associated with the African continent.
“I doubt it’s a hardship,” I replied, my interest returning to the other young man. His tall bearing and tailored evening garments matched that of any gentleman of my acquaintance, but the mobile expressiveness of his face as he spoke to another guest suggested another noble profession. “Mr. Aldridge . . . why, do you mean the American actor?” I asked, recalling that Charlotte had told me many of the guests at tonight’s dinner party would be connected to the theater.
“Yes, have you seen him onstage?”
“No, but I’ve heard his portrayal of Othello is magnificent.”
“It is. I saw him for the first time at the Royal Coburg in London, and Auntie saw him in Manchester. He’ll be performing the role here in Edinburgh shortly.” She turned to look at me, though I was still distracted by Mr. Aldridge and the pair of people he was talking to, whom I recognized to be Mr. Murray from the Theatre Royal and his sister, Our Mrs. Siddons. “I’ve seated him next to you at dinner. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Of course. Why would I mind?” I asked, a moment before I realized what she meant. Although the slave trade had been prohibited in Britain over two decades earlier, and all enslavement within the British Isles effectively abolished, slavery in the British colonies was still legal, and many members of society still held very prejudicial views. A gentleman of color might be good enough to grace the stage or serve as a merchant, but not to dine at the table with them, or worse, their wives.
“No, I don’t mind,” I repeated.
She smiled. “I thought not. And he is a delightful conversationalist.”
She glanced at Gage in consideration.
“And neither will he.”
“Good.” She pulled my arm through hers, leaning in to murmur, “And has he forgiven you?”
My heart warmed at her concern and the memories of my and Gage’s reconciliation. “Yes.”
“I thought so. Now, come.” She urged me forward. “Let me introduce you to our guests.”
It was a small but lively soiree of about a dozen guests. Among which I was by far the least gregarious. However, I was content to listen to their amusing banter, particularly when a trio of the actors—present and former—initiated a witty exchange which turned into a sort of prandial parlor game similar to Consequences, where the last word of the previous Shakespeare quote had to be used as the first word of the next quote spoken. Soon, almost all of the guests were participating, including Gage.
By the time we adjoined to the dining room for dinner, we were a merry party indeed. The vivid arrangements of camellias, daffodils, and pale yellow pears gracing the table between glimmering settings of silver and crystal only heightened the sparkling atmosphere. The flickering firelight in the candelabras above was reflected in the mirrors hung about the room between paintings by Flemish artists, forming a warm glow around the party.
While bowls of chestnut soup were placed before us, I took the opportunity to address Mr. Aldridge directly. “Lady Stratford told me you’ll be performing the role of Othello here in Edinburgh. I look forward to seeing it.”
“Yes, our opening night should be in about a month’s time. There’s been a delay because of the success of The King of Grassmarket. They’ve extended its number of performances by a few additional weeks.”
“Oh, I hadn’t heard that,” I replied. “Though I suppose I’m not surprised. But that must be inconvenient, if not vexing for you.”
He smiled, his warm brown eyes crinkling at the corners. “Not at all. Actually, I welcome the respite. I’ve only just come from Dublin, and before that Bath.”
“And you’re originally from New York?” I asked, before eating a spoonful of the silky soup.
“Yes. Have you been to America, my lady?”
I shook my head.
“Let’s just say there aren’t many career prospects there for a man like me.”
I offered him a sympathetic smile, able to read between the lines but uncertain what to say. It wasn’t just unfair but morally wrong that he and others were treated differently because of the color of their skin. My Irish grandmother had held very strong views about such matters, and she had made certain all of her grandchildren were well aware of them. I’d been fortunate to have the benefit of her wisdom.
“Well, I am glad your prospects are better here,” I finally said. “Their loss is our gain.”
He cast me a look of mutual regard, and I hoped he knew I wasn’t simply being polite.
“Have you attended any of the performances of The King of Grassmarket?” he asked after taking a drink of his wine.
“Yes.” I nodded toward where Mr. Murray sat across the table. “At the Theatre Royal.”
“And what did you think?”
Though I wasn’t certain where this question was leading—for surely he must apprehend, as all of Edinburgh did, that I was the inspiration for Lady Dalby—I decided to answer him candidly. “The staging is brilliant and the acting impressive. It’s no wonder it’s become a sensation.”
“Yes, but what of the story?”
“You mean the book?” I asked in confusion. “The script is certainly immeasurably better.”
He nodded, but I could tell it wasn’t in agreement but rather acceptance that I did not and perhaps could not comprehend him. It left me feeling as if somehow I had failed, if not him precisely, then in some other aspect. And I found it very hard to swallow my next spoonful of soup.
“What did you think?” I asked after a moment of silence, wondering if he would try to explain what I’d misunderstood or if he would simply dismiss it, dismiss me.
From the manner in which his gaze cut to mine, I could tell he was debating that very thing. He set his glass down precisely, taking care with his words.
“I thought it . . . illuminating.” He looked up at me to see if I was following. “The manner in which it explored the plight of the lower classes here in Edinburgh. The unfairness of society and the justice system under which they must live. The manner in which they’ve tried to right some of that wrong by establishing their own hierarchy and laws. Perhaps not laws the Scottish government would uphold, but which the citizens are happy to abide by because they seem just and honorable and sensible, when much of the social and legal structure under which they’re forced to live is not.”
My heart stilled at his words, and I felt my thoughts shift to another level of understanding. I had recognized the corruption and unfairness amid the levels of society long ago, and I had easily comprehended why Bonnie Brock and his code of honor so appealed to the inhabitants of Edinburgh. And yet I hadn’t grasped the fullness of it, or its relation to the popularity of The King of Grassmarket, until that very moment.
I lifted my gaze to meet Mr. Aldridge’s, wondering if he’d seen it so readily because he could draw the same parallels to the life he had lived. The life he continued to live.
I inhaled a deep breath, willing to admit my failings. “I hadn’t considered it that way, but you’re right. Viewed in that regard, it is illuminating.” I frowned, thinking of the man who’d authored it, and the vendetta he held against Bonnie Brock. “Although I don’t believe the author held such a noble intent.”
“You don’t think it’s Kincaid himself?”
“Oh no,” I protested, aware that others were also now listening. “Definitely not. And he certainly didn’t give permission for the publication either.”
His head tilted to the side as he considered this new piece of information while our soup bowls were whisked away to be replaced by plates of mackerel with fennel and mint. “That is more problematic, then, isn’t it? For essentially the author is profiting from his hardships and successes, without Kincaid deriving any benefit.”
My gaze flicked toward Mr. Murray, for the same could be said about the theaters to a certain extent. Although at least they employed people from the social classes Bonnie Brock seemed to champion. But the theater manager kept his head down, making it difficult for me to deduce what he might be thinking.
“Not deriving any benefit?” one of the other actors protested. “He’s the hero of the city, lauded on every corner.”
“Not by everyone,” Gage replied around a bite of fish, swallowing before he continued. “The police are now more determined than ever to apprehend him for making them look foolish. And rival gangs are intent on seeing that their own crimes are blamed on him. In short, he now has a very large target on him. Even larger than before.”
I had seen the same reports in some of the newspapers that the actor was referring to. Claims that Bonnie Brock was strutting about Grassmarket and Cowgate like a conquering hero, but nothing could be further from the truth. He was hiding, skulking, shifting from place to place. I imagined he felt safest among those citizens who had always protected him, but the police knew that and were not above trying to leverage that to their advantage.
“Then who is this Mugdock character?” Lady Bearsden demanded to know from her seat at the head of the table. “Not someone I’ve ever met.”
“We believe it’s an alias, a nom de plume,” Gage explained.
“Ah, yes. That does make sense.” She tapped her chin. “But why Mugdock? It’s not a very illustrious name.”
“Perhaps he was trying to identify in some way with something,” Mrs. Siddons suggested.
“Or he simply picked it out of a book or off a map,” Mr. Aldridge said.
That had been my theory, but I hadn’t yet been able to find it.
“Hmmm,” Lady Bearsden hummed, speculating aloud in her musical voice. “Well, there is a Mugdock Castle, over in Dunbartonshire or somewhere.” She gestured vaguely with her fork in that direction. “Not far from my estate.”
“There is?” I asked in surprise.
“Yes. Most of it’s a heap. My Lumpy mentioned it to me once. Some childhood memory involving his cousins. I can’t quite recall now.” Which only meant that it hadn’t interested her, otherwise she would have all the details locked away in her brain. She took a sip of her wine, seeming to swirl it around in her mouth as she thought. An odd mannerism which seemed to help dislodge whatever she was trying to recall, for her next words proved remarkable. “Come to think of it, I seem to recall May Kincaid being born there.”
I stilled with my glass halfway to my lips. “You mean Bonnie Brock’s mother?”
Gage’s gaze met mine down the table, wondering the same thing I had. Why hadn’t Bonnie Brock mentioned this?
“Yes, I think that’s right. Her father was a third brother of a third brother, or some such connection, so he and his family lived in one of the less prestigious properties owned by his uncle.” Because true gentlemen were not supposed to work for a living or undertake any employment save the military or the church. “She was a beautiful woman,” Lady Bearsden continued to muse. “Which only caused her heartache. For she became involved with one of her second or third cousins—a married man—and it ruined her. Her parents cast her out, so her lover set her up in a cottage somewhere as his chère-amie, for what else was she to do. And then he abandoned her. It was after that she first made her way to Edinburgh, with Bonnie Brock naught but a babe in arms.”
“She couldn’t have had an easy time of it establishing herself with a child, even as a cyprian,” Mrs. Siddons remarked.
“No, indeed. But she was very beautiful and charming. And fortunately so was her son.”
Bonnie Brock. Bonnie, bonnie Brock.
I wondered for the first time whether that nickname had not come from an incident during his time in jail but from his mother. After all, it had always struck me as an odd choice in a sobriquet for the head of a criminal gang. But from a mother, that made much more sense.
This insight caused a resounding sense of rightness within me, as well as an unbearable ache. He might have transformed the moniker into a term of deceptive menace, but it had begun as a loving epithet from mother to son.
Mrs. Siddons shook her head sadly, laying her fork down. “Then this cousin is Bonnie Brock’s father?”
I perked up at this question.
“Most likely,” Lady Bearsden replied as her glass of wine was refilled.
“Do you know who he is?” I asked.
“Well, the trouble is there are a number of possibilities, and the family has remained rather closemouthed about the entire affair. But the cousin was certainly older than her, and he was already wed, so he couldn’t be forced to do the honorable thing and marry her, which narrows down the possibilities. Perhaps Graham of Strathblane or the Duke of Montrose.” She rattled off a few more names, but none of them meant anything to me. A duke would certainly have the prestige which seemed to be indicated, but from what I recalled of Montrose, he wouldn’t have taken a great deal of interest in a young cousin in Dunbartonshire, no matter how beautiful she was.
Either way, Bonnie Brock certainly had some explaining to do.
After rolling over in bed for approximately the tenth time—a not inconsiderable effort when one was heavy with child—I accepted that sleep was determined to elude me. The rich meal combined with the aches in my own body—particularly my hips, which clasping a pillow between my thighs didn’t even ease—and the weight of my thoughts all contrived against me. So I slid as gracefully from the bed as I could while being roughly the size of a gray seal, donned my warmest dressing gown, and crept from the room.
I wasn’t surprised when my steps led me unconsciously to my studio at the top of the house. Pulling aside the drapes, I allowed moonlight to spill over the shrouded easels, their forms almost spectral in the hallowed light. Given the contents underneath, it wasn’t difficult to imagine them taking on a life of their own, as I tried so ardently to imbue life into my portraits.
I hesitated a moment, breathing the chill night air tinged with the lingering scents of linseed oil, turpentine, and gesso deep into my lungs. Then I reached out to carefully remove the covers from each of the canvases, exposing them to the light. They were at various stages of completion, each unique in their composition. Two were commissioned portraits, one a rough sketch of a portrait of myself and our as yet unborn child that I hoped to give Gage for his birthday in late July, and the last three were paintings for my proposed exhibit of the Faces of Ireland.
It was to these last three that I turned, not so much examining my brushstrokes as my intentions behind them. I had been touched by the plight of the Irish people, and the hatred and discrimination the largely Catholic population received at the hands of their Anglo-Protestant leaders, as well as the rest of the population of Britain. And so I’d conceived of this exhibit to illustrate how much they were not so different from us.
But the truth was there were faces in every corner of Britain, every corner of the world that deserved to be better seen—their joys, their pains, their struggles, their humanity illuminated on canvas. And yet I’d largely turned a blind eye to the people in my own part of Scotland who most needed to be noticed. It was a humbling and sobering realization. One that I’d been stumbling toward but had needed my conversation at dinner with Mr. Aldridge to help me to see more clearly.
My thoughts turned once again to my grandmother, who’d often been called eccentric, and at times had been viewed with disdain simply because of her Irish blood and her firm convictions. While I’d always appreciated her wisdom and acceptance—both of herself and others—I hadn’t fully respected how she’d become the woman she was or the adversities she’d faced. I hadn’t fully embraced the things she’d taught me, content to abide by many of the norms of society because I was already seen as so unnatural in other ways.
I saw now that that was wrong. Perhaps it had been understandable given the slights I’d endured because of my peculiarity, but now that I was aware of what I’d chosen to ignore, I couldn’t continue to go on doing so. Not without shaming myself and my grandmother, and our faith. She had done her part, both big and small, to try to enlighten those around her, and now it was my turn—small and insignificant though it might be. I had to try.
I traced the brushstrokes of the old Irish woman I’d nearly finished painting, realizing one of the reasons she had so captured my imagination when I’d first seen her on the street in Rathfarnham was that she reminded me of my grandmother. Her gentle smile, her strength, her resilience. It brought a not unhappy tear to my eye.
“Kiera, what are you doing up here?”
I turned to find Gage standing bleary-eyed in the doorway, his hair standing up in tufts about his head.
“And crying?”
I dashed away the tear and offered him a reassuring smile. “I couldn’t sleep.”
“Obviously.” He looked around the room, noticing that the sailcloths had been removed from the canvases. “You aren’t going to try to paint now, are you?”
“No,” I replied in gentle amusement at his still-sleepy voice. “Just thinking.”
He nodded slowly, as if not quite comprehending. “About art?”
“Partly.” I nibbled my bottom lip, considering the artwork around me and the decision I had just come to. “I’m not going to accept any more portrait commissions. After I finish these two, I’m done with them.”
“Are you sure?” he asked in astonishment.
“Yes. I no longer need the income from the commissions, so there’s really no reason to continue them.”
“But Kiera, you love your art,” Gage said aghast. “I know how much it means to you.”
“Oh, I’m not going to stop painting,” I reassured him, recognizing now the reason for his confusion. “I’m simply not going to paint wealthy clients who already have more portraits of themselves than they probably need.”
“Then . . .” he prompted.
“I’m going to paint the unseen. The people who move about us every day, making our lives, our city, our country work, and yet are all but overlooked and dismissed. I’m going to meet them where they are, and observe how life plays across their faces, and paint them in truth. But with dignity and grace,” I amended, determined that they should not be exploited by me—not intellectually or monetarily.
I looked up from the portrait of the Irish grandmother I’d been studying as Gage stepped forward to rest his hands on my shoulders. His features were softened by the moonlight. “This was not a decision made lightly.”
“No,” I admitted. Giving up my commissions of the wealthy would mean very few of my portraits would ever grace the walls of stately homes across the country or the galleries in London and elsewhere. They might only be exhibited by me. I would likely never receive the praise and esteem other portraitists received, but being a woman, I had known that was unlikely anyway.
I inhaled a deep breath. Deeper than I’d seemed to be able to inhale in a long time. “But it’s the right one.”
And one that would not have been possible had I not wed a wealthy man. I was in a unique position—fortunate that I didn’t need income and prestige to support me or my family. The vast majority of artists could not say the same. Thus, the creation of my art was solely at my discretion.
He smiled in acceptance. “When did this decision come about?”
“Tonight. Though I’ve been grappling with it for some time. Since we went to Ireland. No, before that. Perhaps when we were last in Edinburgh.”
He studied my features. “I suspect your discussion with Mr. Aldridge this evening may have had something to do with it.”
“Yes,” I admitted, lifting my hands to cup his elbows. “He helped me to see I’d been willfully ignoring some things.” I pictured him seated beside me, his expression patient and controlled despite my obtuseness, his graceful features steady and assured despite the injustice of the world he must live in. “What did you tell Philip about the plan the prime minister and the other cabinet members are hatching?”
I could see in Gage’s eyes that he understood at once why I was asking. “That if they convince the king to create new peerages in order to pass the Reform Bill, they can rely on me. For that, and for the passage of the Anatomy Reform Act. And the Slave Abolition Act,” he added, having recognized where I was leading.
Three critical pieces of legislation. Three essential issues. And in many ways, they all relied on the Reform Bill. For many of the wealthy West Indian plantation owners had essentially purchased the rotten boroughs that the Reform Bill sought to eliminate, thwarting and manipulating Parliament on the matter.
“Good,” I told him. “They need you.”
He nodded distractedly, and I wondered if he was thinking of his father. Of what he would say if his son was granted a title separate from the one he would inherit from him. Of what his father truly thought of these issues, which I knew was certain to be complicated. Of his lies and betrayals and failure to tell him he had a half brother.
I wrapped my arms around his torso and turned to the side so I could rest my head against his heart. If possible, I would wrap the heart beating inside his chest with silk and surround it with armor, standing guard against any who might hurt it. But such a thing was impossible. Had I not injured it myself only a few short days ago? So all I could do was try my best to soothe it with all the love I possessed. To let him know he was not alone.
His arms embraced me in return, and a few short minutes later I felt his warm breath against my forehead. “Little dark one.”
I looked up at him in question, uncertain why he was referring to the meaning of my name.
“I know why your grandmother insisted that be your name. Because somehow she knew you would dare to plumb the darkest recesses of the human heart and shine a light there.” His pale blue eyes were two liquid pools in the moonlight. “You certainly plumbed mine.”
The love I saw reflected in his face made the tears that always seemed to be so near the surface these days threaten. So before they could fall, I arched up onto my tiptoes and kissed him.
Sometime later Gage pulled his mouth from mine, and I began to trace the line of his jaw with my lips. His voice was rough as he spoke. “As delightful as this is, perhaps we might move this to an alternative location. I think my feet are turning numb.”
I giggled. “You should have worn slippers.”
“Had I known that seeking out my wife in the middle of the night would lead me up to her glacial studio, I would have.”
“Fair enough,” I replied, reaching for one of the sailcloths to recover the portraits.
But Gage’s hand captured my wrist. “It can wait until morning.”
I nodded. A few hours’ exposure would do them no harm.
However, Gage did turn back and twitch the drapes shut just for good measure, remembering how sunlight could damage the pigments, and my heart surged with even more love for him.