Chapter Five

 

As the hansom drove through the crowded streets, Blair tore the brown paper from the canvas and studied it in the daylight. Superbly crafted, it would prove to be a great investment. Russo deserved to be famous. He gazed at Giovanna’s painted face. Russo had called her Gina. He liked the name it suited her. In a way, Horace had been right. Russo had taken poetic license with his subject. Gina was taller, longer of limb than the paintings suggested, perhaps more than was fashionable, the crown of her head would be just below his chin, he imaged. The thought of holding her close warmed him. He remembered her slender hand, the fingers long and tapered. Her coloring differed from Aphrodite, her magnificent hair more fair than red, and her glowing skin seemed kissed by sunshine, not something one expected to find at the end of a long, English winter. She was not a milk-and-water miss. Those amazing almond-shaped eyes had challenged him at one point and he suspected she wouldn’t let a man dominate her, despite her circumstances. Would their relationship be a fiery one? His loins hardened at the prospect.

Blair had the means to rescue her from that miserable hole in the wall, and he intended to do so when the time was right. He leaned back and indulged in the vision of her tawny eyes filled with passion. Was she yet to experience real passion? He wanted to hear his name on her lips as he made love to her. Lord! He was going mad. Her image hanging on his wall would be a torment. He wanted Gina in his bed and, as his mother was so fond of reminding him, he always got what he wanted.

It would have to be soon. He would begin immediately to search London for a suitable apartment, one that would delight her and ease that line of worry that crept between her brows when she looked at Russo. The artist had the look of one who likes the drink.

Her glorious curves should not be so plainly dressed. The yellow rose she wore in her hair when she first opened the door was perfect. She would look superb in jewels, topaz, rubies, emeralds, and diamonds. What a pleasure to dress her… and undress her.

Blair left the cab and carried the painting into his townhouse. His manservant took the parcel along with his hat and cane. “Have this framed will you, Jarvis.”

“A letter arrived from Ireland, sir.”

“Pour me a whiskey, will you?” In his study, Blair sat down to read it. He rose again a moment later. “Don’t bother with whiskey,” he said as Jarvis hovered with the crystal decanter. “Pack me a bag and hail a cab for the station. I’m leaving immediately for Ireland.”

* * *

 

Milo and Gina emerged from Earl’s Court tube station into the fresh air and wide, graceful streets. They walked along Kensington High Street and turned into Melbury Road. Milo pointed out number eighteen, where the painter, William Holman Hunt lived. Gina could hardly believe her eyes; the houses were so big and grand.

“He was the founder of the Pre-Raphaelites,” Milo said. “But he brought scandal on himself, by marrying his dead wife’s sister. His latest work, May Morning on Magdalen Tower is known to be a fine piece, but sadly, I hear his eyesight is failing.”

They walked into Ilchester Place, admiring Sir Luke Fildes’ studio with its magnificent cupola attached to a house of several stories with many chimneys. “The garden is as big as a park,” she said breathlessly. She and Milo wandered along admiring the magnificent residences as street cleaners swept the remarkably clean streets.

They entered the park surrounding Holland House, an enormous, ghostly Jacobean mansion. Gina had never dreamed such beauty existed. Like them, families had come to enjoy a picnic. They were greeted warmly as they strolled about, enjoying a rare, sunny winter’s day.

Laughter filled the air as children romped with hoops and threw balls. At noon, they chose a spot on the grass to eat. Gina drew a checked cloth from her basket and spread it over the ground, then arranged two plates, a knife to cut the sausage, cheese, and bread.

“Frederic Leighton lives near here.” Milo slapped two pieces of bread around a wedge of cheese and sausage. “You know his work. He’s a touch above us.”

“Why?” Gina asked, with a fierce frown. “You studied art in Florence, Milo. Your work is better than his.”

Milo smiled. “You’re such a loyal girl, Gina. Herbert Schmalz, a good friend of mine–he paints those New Testament scenes, married Leighton’s model, Dorothy. It was Leighton who formed the artist’s colony here. It’s called the Holland Park Circle.” Milo pronounced the name with great deference. He sighed. “I’d love to be part of it.”

Gina had said very little since they arrived. She had taken in every detail of the elegant houses, the large gardens with creepers spilling over stone walls, the finely dressed people walking the clean, open streets. She looked up at the canopy of pale blue above. It even seemed to be a different sky. The fresh breeze rustled though the branches overhead and banished any thought of the foul air and city traffic. Birds twittered above them and deer wandered through the trees. It was restful to her eyes, made sore by looking at nothing but bricks and mortar and the small patch of gray sky between the tenements.

Her heart swelled at the hope that Milo’s dream might become hers. “Could we live in this beautiful place, Milo?” she asked, the need causing her voice to catch in her throat. “Could we ever afford it?”

Milo smiled at her as he pulled a cork from a bottle and poured red wine into two glasses.

“Three more paintings and I promise you, we’ll come here to live.” It stung her to realize that his hair had begun to thin and his chin sagged. He was growing old. Success had come to him almost too late.

Gina wished she could believe him. She lay back and listened to the sound of water spilling from the nearby fountain into a pool. A vision of another fountain in a paved courtyard, sheltered by a rose arbor, swam into her mind’s eye. “Milo, who was my father?” she asked again. “Mamma would never tell me.”

Milo raised his shaggy gray eyebrows. “She asked me not to tell you when you were younger.”

“Don’t I have a right to know?”

Milo studied her a moment. “Perhaps it’s time.” He drank some wine. “Your father was a wealthy man. A baron. He loved your mother very much.”

“Were they married?” She stumbled over the words, afraid of the truth.

He slowly shook his head. “Baron Montferrer had a wife, Gina. But he protected you and your mother until his death in a riding accident.”

Outraged, Gina bit back a reply. She would never utter a word against her mother, but how could she teach her to be virtuous, when she herself had…

Milo put his hand on hers. “Serena didn’t want that kind of life for you. She wanted something better, Gina.”

Gina bit her lip. “What happened to us after my father died?”

“Your mother lost everything. His wife had you both thrown out onto the street.”

“And that’s when you and mother met?”

“Yes. A very lucky fellow I was. I knew she didn’t love me as she’d loved him, but I felt honored to marry her.”

“I remember the yellow roses,” Gina said, then fell into silent contemplation.