Chapter Twenty
But is it art?
“Benjamin?” He caught the young cub hauling an odd-shaped sack across the hall rug. “What the devil is going on this morning?”
Late to rise, Jack had emerged from his chambers without pneumonia but with an aching crown and a wolf in his stomach.
Descending the stairs felt akin to entering Dante’s inferno – servants bustled hither and thither with easels and canvases, cook bellowed instructions for tetty and turnip pie, Mrs Mildern muttered to the butler about red wool, the peacock strained its neck to peep through the hall window and Sir Jago, he noticed, hastily closed his study door on the hubbub, the lock clicking.
“It’s the second Wednesday of the month,” came Benjamin’s reply.
“Of course it is, but just to expand upon that a little, in case anyone is lost, is it the Treloor Saint’s Day? Some Cornish festival? A re-enactment of King Arthur?”
“No, the Ladies Landscape League. Miss Penrose and Miss Treherne are principal members and they’re all meeting at Carn Brea Castle up near Redruth to paint things. Can’t see the point myself.” Ben scratched his nose. “I mean, I can see it, why would I want a picture of it?”
Jack pinched his forehead. How in the hell was he supposed to watch over Tamsyn if she kept gadding all over the countryside?
“Is there room in the carriage for me?” he asked wearily.
Today he’d planned to chat with the fishermen regarding any odd happenings along the coast. After last night’s drunken spree, he hoped to have opened a gap in the harbour wall as the men of Treloor were as tight-lipped as barnacles.
“Do you paint, my lord?”
The Winterbourne London residence held four Rembrandts, two Titians, a Hogarth and a recent Turner. “Not personally, no.”
“Well, it’s a fair way and if you don’t mind me saying, you looks as rough as a rat-catcher’s dog this morning.”
Insolent scamp. “Do you actually know what any of these phrases mean?”
“Course,” Benjamin replied, blithely. “But I say ’em to bamboozle Englishmen.”
“But you’re English.”
“How dare you!” The lad puffed out his thin chest. “Just cos you bought me a Fair Maiden yesternight, don’t mean you can insult me. I’m Cornish. You are officially demoted to number two on my hero list.” And he huffed off, muttering about how the courageous Captain Lynch had never called him such a name.
“Did we not mention the outing, Jack?” The silky tone caught him unawares, and he glanced back to behold Tamsyn descend the stairs in a fetching smoke-grey dress, paint box tucked under her arm, an emerald-green ribbon encircling her throat once more. “I’m sure we can squeeze you in the carriage as the professor and Mr Sewell are following on horseback.”
That same emerald-green frippery had inveigled its way into his dreams last night, her cocoa-coloured hair splayed across his pillow, curling unaided, a Medusa’s lure. Winged creatures had flitted in the air and whispered erotic musings in his ear. Slender legs had clutched his naked hips, green ribbon binding their bodies together.
Scorching and inseparable.
His breath caught, chest so tight.
Maybe he’d succumbed to some incurable lung disease brought on by too much fresh salty air. He needed to visit the city and breathe in some coal-laden fog.
Better forgo the close quarters of a carriage and ride Jowlik instead.
∞∞∞
The Ladies Landscape League had never been so well attended, and twelve artists had donned aprons and set brush to canvas whilst servants wilted in the shade having heaved the extensive apparatus up the steep path to Carn Brea.
“It won’t do,” bewailed Lady Cooch, hand to brow and splodging red paint in her hair. “I need…perspective.” A sly glance cast its net. “Lord Winterbourne, would you be a dear and stand in front of the castle.”
The rogue’s lips curved. “Anything to assist, Lady Cooch.” And he ambled over.
“In that case…perhaps the removal of your jacket also. As a devotee of prospettiva, I find plum quite distracts the eye.”
Sniggering, Tamsyn attempted to switch her gaze to the easel, realising she’d painted the sky green. Perchance she could upend her canvas.
Whoever married Jack would have to endure female fluttering eyelashes continually, she supposed. Could a rogue’s renown ever be forgotten?
“Will this suffice, Lady Cooch?”
All eyes swivelled as the marquess posed, hands on hips, fine muslin shirt sleeves lightly fluttering, fawn buckskin breeches snugly fitting.
A breeze of sighs warmed the already heated air.
Tamsyn splashed around some blue paint and mused that if Jack wasn’t careful, the ladies would stuff him for future use and rename themselves the Ladies Libertine League.
At the picnic, she’d been more than a little envious of his adoring admirers, flirtatious chat and easy manner but she realised today that it was simply a part of his nature to cheer people.
Beset with such tragedy in his youth, he’d learned to grasp joy, to scatter it and reap the return. The ladies cooed and the gentlemen chortled, but every now and then, he’d wink at her, cast a sly glance, or smile that crooked grin and she would feel special…even amongst all these admirers.
Before Jack had arrived, a small door had been creaking open in her life but he’d helped fling it wider, stuck his tasselled boot in, and let light flood forth. Perchance she could become a rogue-ess, devoting her days to pleasure.
Reviewing her canvas, Tamsyn found she’d painted the sun blue as well.
“Could you…” Mrs Tripconey’s eyes languidly perused from hessians to sooty curls, brush end tapping at her nose. “…bend forward a fraction, my lord. I can’t quite see the turret.”
“Like this,” he queried, expression as angelic as Lucifer’s, but Tamsyn noted not one gaze could be seen directed at any stone protrusions.
The poor castle looming behind him in ancient haughtiness appeared rather lacklustre, upstaged by a London lothario.
As she let her paintbrush meander, yellow smearing the land to autumn, the events of last night stretched into her mind.
His utter acceptance, his kind words.
And this morning, in nothing but her chemise, she’d stared into the mirror and…smiled.
Not that all of a sudden she didn’t see the ugliness or believe a man could ignore it, but Jack was right: the scars were a part of her now and so she had traced the lines, remembering her blissful nights with her delicate flying creatures.
She was another conquest, she admitted. Jack didn’t necessarily have her heart – how foolish it would be to fall for a rogue – but she admired him immensely. It would be all too easy to fall deeply and passionately in lo–
“It’s too hot,” shrieked Mrs Tresize, throwing her painting apron to the maid and revealing a yellow satin gown more suited to a Helston bawdy house. “Surely, my lord, you would also prefer to disrobe another item? We don’t want you drooping and as ladies of the world, a bared throat won’t induce the vapours.”
Tamsyn smirked and added a splotch of grey for the castle – there was no point gilding the creation.
“Au contraire, my flock of innocent doves,” Lord Winterbourne countered, throwing his arms wide. “I am blessed with much stamina and could comply with your demands the whole day through should it be deemed necessary.”
Lowdy paused and studied her canvas, brush rested.
The Earl of Fowlmere had advocated that ladies should only paint still life, but Lowdy had always preferred the wide-open skies and unrestrained nature of landscapes.
Hence, unlike the rest of the Ladies League who huddled in a circle before the castle, she’d looked outward to the rugged coast, scrubby land and industrial mines.
She’d mixed shades, surveyed the terrain, delicately rendered the diverse greens – bottle, emerald and Saxon.
But today she mumbled in disappointment at her watercolour. “It lacks…”
“Emotion.”
Her brush plunged, splattering jade paint on her apron. “Mr Miggens, what can I do for you?”
She twisted to encounter that same jade colour in his eyes.
With heart thumping at quite an alarming pace, she willed a breeze to appear, to cool her brow and palms.
Mr Miggens towered over her, face pallid and eyelids a little red this morning. In the dead of night, she’d been convinced his voice had murmured outside her door, a soft crooning, but a thump, shuffle and then silence had persuaded her it must have been the household cat.
“I’m serving all the ladies their refreshments.”
“Oh.” And glancing down, she spied the hamper of cordial, water and glasses at his sizeable feet. “Why are you doing that? You’re valet to his lordship.”
He shrugged those broad shoulders dressed in immaculate black cotton, cravat a sculptured masterpiece and waistcoat of Devonshire brown. In fact, he wouldn’t look amiss in a glittering ballroom.
“It was his lordship who sent me.”
“Well, thank you, Mr Miggens.”
“You called me Oliver on the beach.”
Yes, she had. She’d gone collecting mussels and when a particularly stubborn one had refused to part from the rock, he’d suddenly been there, plucking it with nary a strain, and then taking her hand, he’d placed the mussel within her palm.
He was so…knowledgeable and agreeable and strong and kind and she’d stared up at him and…sighed his name.
Oliver.
And then he’d bent down and… She blushed. Such a delicate brush of lips as though she were the finest china. He’d whispered words of admiration, of respect.
But he mustn’t and shouldn’t because she was nothing, had nothing, not even her virtue. He should marry an intact maid who could boil tea and cook potatoes. Or a woman who could keep house and earn a wage. Or a saintly governess who could educate.
All she could do was be a companion.
And not a very good one at that.
Oh, she loved Tam to bits and knew she’d always have a home here, but when the earl had declared her surplus to the household and she’d searched for employment, she’d come to understand how truly useless she was.
The dressmaker had scolded that her stitches weren’t suitably petite. A family had stated her mathematics weren’t sufficient to teach their child of four years, and a housekeeper had taken one glance at her soft white gentlewoman’s hands and laughed.
Clumsy, foolish, chubby Lowdy.
She lowered her lashes, veiling him from her thirsty sight. She didn’t deserve Oliver Miggens.
“I’ve no need of any refreshment.” And she turned her back, just as she had on the beach.
Yet the clink of glasses sounded, the pouring of lemonade, and a clunk as he placed it on the ground beside her. He stood behind, close, and she denied the quiver of delight as his voice rasped, breath disturbing her nape.
“Your painting lacks emotion, Lowdy, because you do not allow emotion in yourself.”
Footsteps departed.
“Upon my word, Miss Roskruge, your depiction of the turret is magnificent,” Jack flattered, squinting.
The lady in question preened. “I’m so glad you noticed, my lord. My work, you understand, explores the relationship between Botticelli’s awareness and Bernini’s form. My art metamorphosises, created from both viewed and detected meanings.”
“Succinctly put.” And he hurriedly moved on to the next artist, glad to stretch his legs after the Ladies League had tied him in hitch knots.
Lady Coon’s offering appeared somewhat lacking in castle, so he meandered to Tamsyn who’d removed her apron and stood eating white grapes.
He peered at her canvas.
Then peered closer.
“Is that a tree?”
Tamsyn scrunched her nose. “It’s you.”
“Ah.”
“Mr Turner pronounced my painting style…loose.”
“Turner?” Jack’s eyes widened; the League’s reputation must have travelled far and wide.
“Vulgar little fellow,” shrieked Lady Bawden. “Vastly ill-bred, but I suppose he paints well enough.”
Tamsyn smiled. “I liked him,” she whispered. “He seemed shy. Came here four years ago with his sketch pads and that was when the League was initiated. We auction our offerings for the Fishermen’s Widows Society in Helston. And before you ask, Father bids for mine.”
“I shall purchase one, and upon my return to London, display it in my study.” But the statement caused a pall. Tamsyn’s brow furrowed, and a cloud dangled over this beautiful scene. He sought to banish it. “Mr Sewell is sketching a Giant’s Hand apparently. Would you care to show me the site, Miss Penrose?”
He sensed a dozen eyebrows rise but looked wholly to Tamsyn.
Blue eyes lit with pleasure, the cloud vanishing in the warmth. “Certainly.” And she took his arm.
They tramped over the rocky ground, avoiding prickly gorse and the picturesque but bored-looking sheep.
“I like this place very much,” Jack said, frowning. And he didn’t just mean this barren hill with its strange castle, but Cornwall – its people and land.
Today had been thoroughly enjoyable, relaxed yet amusing, and he’d relished watching Tamsyn paint, chewing her lip in concentration and splodging colour with no seeming relevance to reality. That tempting green choker had haunted his thoughts – even now he wished to hook a finger within it, tug, bring her near…
But the beady eye of Mrs Pencally tracked their every step closer than a fortune hunter did an heiress.
After backtracking and a bit of clambering, they found the research assistant squinting at a boulder that did indeed resemble…a boulder.
“Legends claim,” stated Mr Sewell as he finely sketched the cracks, “there was a fierce battle between two giants until a stone struck John of Gaunt and killed him. The remaining giant hurled more stones and buried his enemy’s body till only the hand remained visible.”
“Touch macabre,” remarked Jack.
Sewell twisted to peer up. “Life can be macabre, don’t you find?” His glasses magnified those listless eyes to deathly hollows before he swung back to his etching.
Odd chap.
Grabbing Tamsyn by the hand, they perused the scattered rocks, debating shapes and bodily details.
“Do you think La Chauve-Souris is alive, Jack?”
The question startled him, and he glanced up to gauge her emotion. She seemed resigned but calm. “I will protect you, Tamsyn.”
“I know but answer me…please.”
“Yes.”
“I do also. I can almost feel him.”
He yearned to clasp her close, to reassure, but all he could do under watchful eyes was press her fingers. “Cast him out, Tamsyn,” he said low. “Let his evil dissipate in the beauty of this land.”
Blue eyes that outshone the sky for brilliance softened. “You are the very best of gentlemen.”
“No, I’m a rogue an–”
“I know, Jack. I know what you are and that this is simple flirtation. I do understand.”
Her words caused a pounding in his chest. A strange ire which refused to quell.
Mayhap his heart was finally giving out since he used it so little. But it didn’t feel as such; standing in this landscape of wild boulder and limitless heavens with Tamsyn, it felt alive.
Jack cleared his throat. “The man you marry…” She demurred but he hushed it. “…will be a lucky bugger.”
A peeping smile. “And have to like moths, splodged paintings and grey, so I suspect the queue for my hand will be short.”
His lips parted to say he was growing to adore all those things… But that would be foolish.
With a palm shading his eyes, he watched Tamsyn scramble over rock and bracken, skirts hiked, at one with the land – eager and free.
He tried to imagine her in London.
The foul air would taint her lungs, the stifling ballroom her spirit. Would gentlemen of the ton look down upon such a country miss?
Or… Or would she cast her mermaid’s lure just as she had over him? An exotic creature of nature gliding past.
Would she outshine them all?
Cursing, he dismissed the thought and scanned the rocks for her.
It didn’t matter anyhow.
Then he heard the scream.