12

Julian’s mask had fallen to the floor. We neither of us had noticed, being otherwise engaged. With a short search, it was found at our feet. He replaced it while I patted at my skirt and hair, wishing there was a single mirror in the room to peek at.

Julian allowed Huxley in with the tea things. I planned to make my escape before Gwen arrived, but her voice swept in from the corridor: “I’m so sorry; I’m terribly late! Anna’s been impossible.”

I backed into the room, heart thumping against my ribs. Julian held his gaze straight ahead, looking like nothing at all was amiss.

“Did you not think your sister enough occasion to smarten for?” Gwen strode in and pushed a wrapped parcel into Julian’s hands. “You look a mess. I cannot think how you manage to wrinkle so . . . What have we here?”

Her eyes trailed up from Julian’s rolled sleeves to his mask, where more of his painted beard had flaked away. With a creased brow, she swiped the paint with her thumb as if it was a bit of leftover gravy from luncheon. “Well?”

Julian’s lips remained pressed together. If I didn’t step in, we could all be waiting an awfully long time. “That was my doing, I’m afraid,” I said.

Gwen hadn’t noticed I was there. She turned her head, blinking as everything settled in her mind. “Why, Miss Preston. Hello. How terribly rude of me to ignore you.”

“Not at all, my lady. I was just going . . .”

Julian came alive then, removing his sister’s hands from his arms. “Miss Preston has brought me a painting.”

Gwen cocked her head, and her eyes lit on the canvas, set conspicuously by the window. “Heavens, you’ve been busy, haven’t you? May I have a look?” Without waiting for an answer, she went to the window. Her expression was complex, somewhere between nonplus and the mournful look Julian had on when he’d seen it. “My . . . how magnificent.”

I forced a smile. “Thank you.”

Julian moved stiffly to stand beside me, drumming his fingers on the parcel he’d been given. I thought his silence read suspicious, though Gwen mustn’t have thought much of it, or else knew precisely what had gone on and was glad.

“You must stay and have tea with us, Miss Preston,” she said.

“Oh—you’re terribly good, but I mustn’t push in.”

“I insist; I’ve been so eager to talk with you at greater length.” Gwen arched a brow at Julian. “So long as his lordship has no opposition?” The pair of them had the family knack for silent conversation.

Julian raised his head. “Please, do join us.”

There was no refusing now, though the thought of sitting at table between Gwen and Julian, whose skin I could still taste on my lips, was rather unsettling. I waited about awkwardly while Huxley laid our tea. Gwen sent him for an extra setting, even as Julian protested. Gwen’s word was final, so we waited until a third cup was brought from downstairs. I decided, if the world were a fairer place, Castle Braemore would be run by the firstborn Napier, rather than the first son, and that son would be happier for it.

Once Huxley was dismissed, Gwen had a sharp breath and smiled at me. “All sorted, then? Lovely. I’ll pour. How do you take it, Miss Preston?”

“Milk, please.”

I felt Julian’s eyes on me as I accepted the tea, the sharp sound of cup sliding on saucer thunderous in the silence. I could feel the warmth of his body at my elbow, creeping up my arm. His scent threaded my nostrils—sweet and heady.

If he regarded me similarly, I couldn’t tell. He sat perfectly tall and still as Gwen finished pouring. “Now that I know you’re an incredibly accomplished artist,” she said, “I don’t mind asking you what on earth you’ve done to my brother’s face.”

I was relieved by the humor in her tone. “It was a silly idea, I suppose. Not at all the right sort of paint for the job.”

“Well, I must say, upon further inspection it does look rather convincing.” She put her hand on Julian’s so he would look at her. “Perhaps we can have Miss Preston do something about the rest of you. Do you cut hair, my dear?”

I smiled when Julian did. “No, my lady.”

“More’s the pity. Each time I see him, he more closely resembles a buccaneer. Shall we get a parrot for you, my boy?”

Julian responded by opening his cigarette case, and placing one in the corner of his mouth. The space filled with intoxicating smoke.

Gwen cut a slice of Victoria sponge and offered it to me. “Have you told Miss Preston about the last woman to paint your face?” Julian shook his head, waving out his match. “Her name was Anna Coleman Ladd, an American sculptor. Julian and I went to see her at her studio in Paris after the war. A fine thing, is it not?”

“A work of art, truly.” I located a cube of sugar and dropped it in my cup. “If only I’d thought to use my passion so similarly to help our boys.”

“She was an inspiring woman.” Gwen regarded Julian with a mother’s affection. “Worth the journey, wouldn’t you say? And the ghastly process? Please stop that—such an unseemly habit.”

Julian had been picking at his whiskers. He let his hand fall, leaning forward to ash his cigarette.

“What was it like?” I asked. “The process? If you don’t mind my asking.”

I looked from Gwen to Julian, who sat back in his chair. It was the quietest he’d been in my company, and I had to wonder if he’d be speaking more easily with his sister if we had not shared an amorous encounter only moments ago.

Gwen was hardly bothered, only waiting as long as it took to swallow her cake before answering. “It took a bit of doing; nearly a month’s worth. Mrs. Ladd started by making a plaster cast of Julian’s face—Lord, I thought he would suffocate beneath it, only a rubber tube through which to breathe whilst it dried.” She swatted his wrist. “Do you remember how red your knuckles were when it finished? I spent the time squeezing his hand to ensure he was still with us. I think it was only half an hour before she removed it, but it felt like an age.”

Julian stirred his tea, his response only the rhythmic, tinny clang of spoon on china. I wondered if he’d drifted into the memory, or it made him uncomfortable to hear it given aloud.

“We returned once she’d finished making the mask—out of copper, was it?—so incredibly thin. And we sat together whilst she showed him how it was to be worn, and did her marvelous work with the paint.”

Both of us were suddenly caught staring at Julian—well, his likeness—and he finally glanced up, feeling our attention. His mouth twitched, not quite a smile, and he stamped out his cigarette to begin another.

“I’m afraid I bullied Julian into it,” Gwen said, refreshing her cup. “There was a man doing a similar sort of work in London, but I’d read about Mrs. Ladd and thought her the superior artist. Julian was an awfully good sport. I don’t expect he regrets it. Will he say as much?” She raised her brows.

Julian let a stream of smoke through the corner of his mouth. “I’m glad we went.”

“We tend not to look backwards in this family,” said Gwen to me. “But I live with the belief that if I forget my past entirely, I also lose the opportunity to learn from it, to grow in perhaps a different, even better direction.”

“I think that wise,” I said.

Julian shifted in his seat, attention surrendered again to his full cup of tea. I was struck by the notion that Gwen had sent for that third cup, had poured hot tea into it, added the lemon wedge, and set it in front of him with the full knowledge he wouldn’t drink it, not in front of me, not with his mask on. That was what she did for all of them. She looked after her siblings with nothing but a fragile thread of hope they might accept her care.

“Well,” she said then, “perhaps you can share your chocolates with Miss Preston now she’s here. It’s high time someone enjoyed them.”

Julian smiled, though his face went fully flush.

Gwen tilted her head towards me. “I’ve given Julian a box of chocolates every Thursday since he was in hospital, and he’s never once eaten a single one. Have you?”

“You needn’t bring them,” Julian said.

“But they cheer you! At least, that’s what I’ve been telling myself all these years. It’s fine chocolate, you know. I order them special from Belgium.”

“How thoughtful,” I said. “The only thing my sisters have ever done to cheer me is say that although I’m unmarried, at least I’ve not put on weight since my youth.”

Gwen’s eyes widened at my boldness. Then her mouth stretched into a pretty smile. “Since your youth, darling? Why, has it passed you already? You look a young thing to me.”

“I suppose war has made me feel older than my years,” I said. “So much lost time.”

It was then I realized why Gwen had chosen to tell me the particular tale of Paris and Mrs. Ladd, and the plaster and the waiting. Julian had pain in his past. He’d been mended. He was put back together into a lord. One fit for love.

Roland had asked me to befriend Julian. Gwen, it seemed, was hoping for a bit more.

“Years are lost so easily, aren’t they?” she said, “so take my advice: you shall never find true happiness until you learn to allow yourself a second slice of cake.”

Gwen and I chatted for a bit longer. All the while she sat forward, listening keenly. I had more respect for her than ever.

When she stood and set her napkin on the table, I hadn’t yet finished my second cup, but Julian and I rose with her.

“If I leave the children with Roland any longer, there will be bruised knees or some other catastrophe.” She took Julian’s hands and pressed her cheek against his for a kiss. “Goodbye, darling. See to it that someone cuts that hair before next week, or I swear I shall take to your head with my sewing scissors.”

“Yes, your ladyship,” he said.

“Don’t cheek your elders.” Gwen’s voice softened, and I moved my gaze away, feeling I was intruding. “You know, Anna would very much like to see that painting Miss Preston has done for you. I could fetch her upstairs for a moment—”

“I shall play her song,” Julian said, with the tone of finality.

Gwen stepped away. “Until next time, then. It was lovely getting to know you, Miss Preston.”

“And you.”

I began to leave with her, but she rounded on me. “Do stay, dear. You haven’t finished, and there’s plenty more cake to be eaten—and those chocolates.”

Gwen’s eyes widened. I saw something I wouldn’t have thought her capable of—desperation. It seemed I was right. She’d tried everything else. She’d come each Thursday, brought the chocolates, encouraged Julian to see the children. Love, perhaps, was her final hope.

“Thanks,” I said. “I will.”

She smiled, gave me a pat on the arm, and left.

Julian and I stood silently by the open door, unsure of one another. Part of me thought he’d say nothing more. Gesture for me to leave. Our discussion had unsettled him, perhaps even crossed a boundary he’d set between us that Gwen had taken down without his permission.

But I was wrong. For he reached out to touch my arm, a firm yet tender gesture, and said, “Please excuse me for a moment.”

He went to the piano to play Anna’s song, and I sat beside him. It was a cheerful tune, but it weighed on my heart. When the song ended, Julian folded his hands in his lap and looked sideways at me. “I daresay my sister has been plotting. Were you aware?”

I shifted in my seat, struck by the truth given so plainly. “Gwen has naught to do with my . . . unyielding resolve to kiss you.”

God, but his smile was lovely. I couldn’t help but reach up to remove the mask again, to see Julian’s swollen cheeks, where kindly creases appeared when he laughed. He closed his eye, still timid of intimacy.

“When may I return?” I asked.

Julian held my free hand between his. I could see his learned restraint in posture, in brow. A nobleman before an unmarried, common woman. What could be expected of him now? This was not like courting at all; this was not how things were done.

“Tomorrow?” he asked.

“Evening?”

This, of course, required more contemplation. I could see Julian fighting himself until at last, he nodded. “Tomorrow evening.”