Flynn Rutledge shifted on the uncomfortable pew and gazed up at the massive windows that soared up into the heavens. His eyes roamed the colored glass, windows crafted with a delicate detail that artisans centuries ago had perfected. It was almost dizzying, the way the brilliant morning light streamed through the collage of color, dappling everything around him like a field of wildflowers. He let his head fall back, the sheer grandeur and size of what had been built by human hands so long ago almost as humbling as the skill in which it had been done.
Flynn sighed and straightened, glancing down at the sketchbook he held in his hands, frowning at the empty pages. Amid all this majesty, he was going to have to come up with something magnificent if he was going to accomplish anything over the next months. God knew it would be up to him to save this damn project. The corners of his mouth drew down farther.
Charlie Beaumont. The name of the man Lisbon had given him as the other artist Flynn would be working with. He’d never heard of him. Nor had any member of the Royal Academy he’d questioned, though there was no way to tell if any of those sanctimonious blackguards were being honest with him. But the apprentices Flynn had asked had offered the same answer, and none of them had any reason to lie. This Beaumont had seemingly appeared out of thin air, unknown. And if Flynn had never heard of him, how was he supposed to believe that this man had sufficient talent for this commission?
Flynn needed this project to go right. His eyes wandered to the framed canvas that was set on the dais of the apse. It was an image of Mary, her expression soft and serene, the baby Jesus settled in her arms. When Flynn had painted it five years prior, he’d had the copy he’d seen of Raphael’s painting of the Madonna del Granduca in his mind, the brilliant colors and beautiful lines providing all the inspiration he’d needed.
And he’d executed that portrait extraordinarily well, Flynn thought, feeling another wash of the aching, angry sadness that festered every time he looked at it now. That portrait had earned him a place on this commission, but all the enthusiasm and ambition that he had possessed five years ago had since been lost. Destroyed, perhaps, would be a better word. And now he found himself adrift and jaded, cynicism replacing the joy he had once—
“It’s exquisite.”
“What?” Flynn started, realizing that he was no longer alone. There was someone standing in front of him, his form and features half obscured by the light behind him.
“The portrait of the Madonna and her child. You captured her inner peace with incredible skill. Raphael would have approved.”
Flynn scowled, shifting and squinting against the light to better see the person who seemed as familiar with his previous work here as he was with a Renaissance master. He sounded young, whoever he was.
“My apologies if I’ve intruded. Mr. Lisbon indicated that I could find you here. I wanted to take the chance to introduce myself.”
Flynn pushed himself out of the pew and stared at the youth before him. He had a bulky canvas bag slung over one shoulder and a long, leather-covered tube for rolled canvases strapped across his back. Dammit, had Lisbon gone against his wishes and hired him an apprentice? Did he think Flynn had the time for such foolery? His scowl deepened. “Who are you, exactly?”
There was an uncomfortable pause. And then, “I’m Charlie Beaumont.”
Flynn goggled at the boy. He was tall and lanky, with short brown hair that fell carelessly around his ears and over his forehead. Eyes the color of warm caramel matched the hue of the baggy, slightly rumpled coat and trousers he was wearing. His voice was soft and raspy, his cheeks smooth above his bright red scarf, and Flynn wondered if the boy even shaved. This was Charlie Beaumont?
Jesus Christ.
“You can’t be serious,” Flynn snarled. This was the last thing he needed. His own twenty-nine years had been questioned as being inadequate to execute a project of this magnitude, so to have a…a child as a partner was ridiculous.
“I can assure you, Mr. Rutledge, I am quite serious.” The boy simply gazed at him with steady eyes, shifting his bag on his shoulder. If Flynn’s manner fazed this boy, he wasn’t showing it.
“How old are you?” Flynn demanded.
“You first.” The response was cool.
God help him, the whelp had an insolent tongue to boot. If he didn’t need this commission, if he hadn’t been forced to— Flynn stopped before his mind could go down that pointless path. Again.
The boy cleared his throat. “Look, Mr. Rutledge, it seems we got off on the wrong foot. I only wished to introduce myself and say that I am looking forward to working with an accomplished artist such as yourself—”
“Where is Lisbon?” Flattery would get this pup nowhere. And nowhere was exactly where Beaumont would be going once he got to the bottom of this.
“I believe he is still working at the rear of the nave.”
Flynn stalked by the boy, the soles of his boots echoing on the stone floor. This was not the nursery of some country house that they were painting with bunnies and birds. This was a work that would be judged by those who had the means and the power to offer him a key to their world. A world where he could stop struggling and have access to everything that artists like Thomas Lawrence or John Crome did.
“Lisbon.” Flynn spotted the architect leaning over a set of schematic drawings that had been laid out across a narrow table just inside the wide doors. Behind him, a handful of masons were working to prepare the area where the painted panels would be mounted.
Henry Lisbon looked up, his expression of slight distraction giving way to a frown when he saw Flynn approaching. “Rutledge.” Lisbon’s green eyes skipped past his shoulder, and Flynn glanced back to find that Beaumont had followed him. Of course. Because that is what puppies did.
“I see you’ve met Mr. Beaumont,” Lisbon said. “Please tell me you’ve come to share your design ideas with me.” There was an edge to his words. “The bishop has been asking for more detailed drawings.”
“May I have a word?” Flynn tried to arrange his face into what he hoped was composed reason.
Lisbon glanced down at the drawings. “Go ahead.”
“In private?”
The architect’s frown deepened, and he made a noise of impatience. “You have two minutes.”
Fine. This wouldn’t take one. Flynn followed Lisbon’s substantial frame back down the aisle until they reached the first transept pillar.
“Is there a problem, Rutledge?” he asked, pushing dark hair in need of a barber from his face with irritation. He couldn’t be more than five or six years older than Flynn, but silver had started to streak his temples.
“Charlie Beaumont.”
The architect dropped his hand. “What about him?”
“Who is he? Where did he come from?”
Lisbon put his hands on his hips. “This isn’t Almack’s, Rutledge, and I am not your damn chaperone. I thought I’d leave the introductions and the getting-to-know-you part to the two of you.”
“I’ve not heard of him.”
“So?”
Flynn took a deep breath. “Is he any good?”
Two dark brows shot up. “You’re questioning my judgment now?”
“Of course not.” Flynn pinched the bridge of his nose. “But this work has to be spectacular. My name is going to be on this.”
Lisbon’s expression darkened. “So is mine. And as such, I’ve hired the best. But if you are reconsidering—”
“No. That’s not— I’m not reconsidering anything.”
“Good. I’m glad we had this talk.” Lisbon brushed by him.
“But Beaumont is a mere boy.”
“He’s an artist.”
“At the very least I think I should take a look at some of his—”
The architect spun. “Listen carefully, Rutledge. I did not hire you because you went to the right schools or studied in the right countries or exhibited your work in the right places. I hired you because of your skill. What makes you think I hired Beaumont for anything less?”
Flynn could feel his teeth clench. Why did this man have to sound so reasonable?
“The next time you have something to share with me, Rutledge, I am confident that it will be on paper. Now go do your job, or I will find someone who will.”
Flynn watched the architect retreat, trying, with effort, to relax his jaw. He took a deep breath and turned to stare sightlessly in the direction of the apse. He needed to relax. Getting frustrated with fate was one thing. Taking that frustration out on Lisbon or Beaumont or anyone else in the chain of events that had deposited him here was not helpful.
“I believe this is yours.”
Flynn jumped. Dammit, the boy moved like a cat. “What?”
“Your sketchbook.” Beaumont was holding out the heavy book of pressed paper to him. “You left it on the pew.”
Flynn took it from the boy’s hands. Delicate hands, he couldn’t help but notice. Long, tapered fingers that had not suffered manual labor but were stained with colorful pigments in the crevices of his nail beds. Flynn supposed he should find that somewhat reassuring. “Thank you,” he said gruffly, wondering how much Beaumont had overheard.
“I’d enjoy seeing any sketches that you might have for the panels,” Beaumont offered, sounding hopeful.
Flynn scowled. He couldn’t show the boy sketches because he didn’t have one he was happy with. Everything that he had done so far seemed…less than impressive, even the rough preliminary drawings that he had submitted months ago to Lisbon. They were missing a dimension, as though the soul of each was absent. And that terrified him to no end. Because no matter how many drawings he did or how many sketches he started, he couldn’t seem to reclaim something that had once come so easy to him.
There were two panels to be completed—each as tall as two men and as wide as one, both to be mounted on either side of the interior doors of the church. They would be highly visible, and they would be the last thing people would see as they left. And Flynn intended to make them memorable. He just wasn’t entirely sure how.
“Perhaps a little later.” He tried to relax his expression. “Would you like to see where we will be living and working? The panels that have been prepared?” There, that was something that existed that he could show Beaumont. And the offer sounded professional. Accommodating, even. And perhaps another look at the panels would inspire something within him.
“I would. Thank you.” Beaumont was watching him, an unreadable expression on his face.
“This way then.” He didn’t wait to see if Beaumont was following but simply spun and headed toward the north transept, slipping through the heavy door at the end. He felt the cool air cut into his skin as he made his way along the edge of the building, though it abated as he entered what had been a sizable outbuilding at one time. Lisbon had claimed it and converted it into a live-in studio of sorts, the tall windows on the north side offering a consistent light and the hearth on the south end offering a consistent warmth against the drafts and damp. Someone had put a wide, blue rug in front of the hearth in what Flynn supposed was an attempt to make the space seem more homey, though the effort fell short. This wasn’t his home any more than any other temporary place he had ever stayed in his travels.
There were two meager rooms off to the side that had been cleared out and furnished with a bed and a washstand each. Flynn had already claimed the one with the bigger bed, and now, given Beaumont’s youth, he felt perfectly justified.
He glanced back to find that the boy had followed him as soundlessly as ever. “You can put your things in there,” Flynn said, gesturing at the remaining empty room. He saw Beaumont hesitate briefly before complying and reemerging. “Coal for the hearth can be taken from the church. There is a pail just outside. Meals can be taken anywhere you please. If my door is closed, I do not wish to be disturbed. Refrain from doing so.” Flynn wondered if that had come out somewhat rude, but he refused to be reduced to a nanny. “And if you have a pretty mot who catches your eye, please be so kind as to use her bed. Or a barn. Or anywhere else where I don’t need to endure the racket of a banging headboard. I will return the favor. Understood?”
“Of course.” The boy had flushed a shade of crimson so intense it suggested that banging headboards would not ever disturb his sleep. Just as well.
“Any other questions?”
“Not at the moment, no,” Beaumont replied, his color slowly returning to normal as he looked past Flynn at the wood panels that had been secured against the far wall. Twin scaffolds had been assembled in preparation for the work, and long tables awaited supplies. The murals would be painted here, away from prying eyes, and then moved into position once they were complete.
Flynn considered the towering blank surfaces before him. “Have you painted on wood before, Mr. Beaumont?”
“I have,” came the polite reply. “Many times. Canvas was not always…available when I was learning.”
Flynn eyed the boy as he moved forward past the scaffolding, running his hand over the smooth, sealed surface. Properly prepared canvas had rarely been available when Flynn was learning either. Paint had generally been begged, borrowed, or stolen. At least until his craft had managed to pay for itself.
“Sealed oak,” Beaumont said without looking back.
Flynn wasn’t sure if that was a question or not. “Yes,” he answered anyway.
“Sufficiently aged?”
“Yes. There is little chance of them warping.” At least the boy was asking the right questions. Perhaps he wasn’t completely clueless.
Beaumont’s hand dropped, and he gazed upward, toward the rounded edges of the upper portion. “Soldier or savior?” he asked suddenly.
“I beg your pardon?” Flynn moved a step closer.
“St. Michael. Soldier or savior?”
“I suppose it depends on the individual,” Flynn replied slowly. He saw Beaumont smile briefly as though he had found something amusing in his answer. “Why do you ask?” he demanded.
“These panels will tell a story. I’m curious which one it is you intend to tell.”
Flynn’s fingers tightened around the edges of his book. He had no idea. Which, he realized, was exactly the problem. Leave it to a bloody boy to put into words so succinctly what Flynn had been unable to. “I am assuming the clergy and the parishioners would like to see the savior.”
“Hmm.”
“You disagree.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But nor did you agree.”
Beaumont turned from the panels and jammed his hands into the pockets of his baggy coat. “I think St. Michael is both. And should be painted as such.”
Flynn’s lips thinned. “That sounds…cluttered.”
“Cluttered?” Now it was Beaumont who looked unimpressed.
“Yes, cluttered. Chaotic, slovenly, disorderly. Too much going on in a single space. These panels are meant to inspire. Not give the viewer a headache.”
“Funny. I suspect someone said that to Michelangelo when he painted the Sistine Chapel,” Beaumont retorted. “Yet I might argue that it is that aspect which makes it inspiring. Every time you gaze upward, there is something new to be discovered.”
Flynn felt the breath punched from his lungs and his jaw slacken. “You’ve been inside the Sistine Chapel.”
He saw Beaumont still, something shifting warily behind those caramel eyes. “Yes.”
“You studied in Italy?” Jealousy was turning like a double-bladed knife in his gut, and he hated himself for the reaction. He had never had a chance to escape the borders of England. See the works of the great Renaissance masters in all their glory—the Sistine Chapel in particular. It had been one of Flynn’s most desperate wishes since the day he had been told about it.
“Not exactly.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I was there.” Beaumont was being deliberately evasive.
“Why?” Flynn closed the gap between them.
“I was traveling with an aristocratic family,” the boy said after a long pause. “Italy was one of their annual destinations, and they had accompanied their son on a leg of his grand tour. I recorded their adventures. Places they went, things they did.”
Flynn had never heard of the like. “What do you mean, recorded their adventures?”
“A series of sketches, featuring each of them. Watercolors. Some more substantial paintings when we returned to England.” His eyes slid away.
“Bloody hell.” Flynn knew the ridiculous excesses of the nobility, but this was beyond the pale. To pay to have an artist trail one around the Continent, sketching portraits and pictures all the while, was the height of narcissistic idiocy.
And Flynn would have jumped at the chance to do it. A thousand times over, if it had meant he could see what Beaumont had.
“I would paint them as opposites.”
It took Flynn a moment to realize that Beaumont was talking about the panels again, deliberately changing the subject. “I beg your pardon?”
“Opposites. Hope and despair. Love and hate.” The boy was watching him from beneath his tousled hair. “What do you think?”
Flynn once again found himself scowling. “I don’t know. But what I do know is that this work must be compelling. Inspiring. Resplendent.”
Charlie Beaumont sighed. “And what I’m telling you, Mr. Rutledge, is that to evoke emotion, an artist must paint emotion. Real sentiments and passions that others can relate to.” He paused. “Like your Madonna. Your use of color and perspective is lovely, the way you’ve mastered the light is impressive, but it is not those things that make that painting so riveting. Your Madonna positively radiates the unconditional love a mother might have for her child. She glows with the peace she has found in stopping time long enough to simply hold her son in her arms, safe and protected in that moment.”
With horror, Flynn felt his throat suddenly thicken. Because when he’d created that portrait, it had been his mother’s face he had painted. A woman who had raised Flynn on her own, who had done what she had to so that they both might survive. A woman who had loved Flynn unconditionally until the day she had died, even though he hadn’t been able to give her her greatest wish.
“Are you really lecturing me on how to paint, Beaumont?” Flynn barked roughly because he couldn’t say any of that to this boy. Wouldn’t say any of that to Beaumont or anyone else for that matter. Ever. He could feel the weight of the boy’s gaze on him, and he resisted the urge to fidget. Dammit, what was wrong with him?
“I’m not lecturing you on anything, Mr. Rutledge,” Beaumont finally said. “I’m…envying you, I think.”
Rutledge made a rude noise. “For what?” he demanded. “You envy me that commission? I did it five years ago, and—”
“I’m envying you that love. Whoever it was in your life who possessed a generous heart like that and allowed you to see what unconditional love truly looks like.”
Flynn found himself staring at Beaumont, utterly unnerved and unable to find words. What the hell was happening? In a handful of sentences, Charlie Beaumont had obliterated the fortifications he had constructed between Flynn Rutledge the professional artist and Flynn Rutledge the man. Seen right through him with a terrifying accuracy. Seen parts of his past that no one else had.
Beaumont abruptly turned. “I’m sorry if I’ve made you uncomfortable, Mr. Rutledge,” he said. “That was not my intention.”
“I’m not uncomfortable,” Flynn snapped, lying through his teeth.
“Oh. Then I’m glad.” Beaumont disappeared into his room and reemerged with his sketchbook.
“Where are you going now, Mr. Beaumont?” Flynn asked with an edge to his voice.
“To compose some ideas,” Beaumont replied politely.
“And to capture buckets of emotion on those pages, I’m sure.” He was behaving like an ass but he couldn’t seem to find his equilibrium.
Beaumont paused, silhouetted in the door frame against the winter-dulled grounds. “I certainly hope so, Mr. Rutledge,” he said, before closing the door behind him.