Page 20

S ome days later—Constantia refused to allow herself to count how many—she was sitting in her bedroom before lessons began. On the otherwise bare table before her lay the leather case that contained her mother’s portrait.

She hadn’t seen Alistair since the afternoon in the studio. She had sent word to him with Edwina that there would be no need for another sitting. If he chose to read more into those words than their plain meaning, well, that couldn’t be helped. In any case, he had not sought her out, for which small mercy she told herself she was glad.

She preferred solitude and self-reliance—hadn’t she been on her own for almost twenty years?

With a shuddering breath, she lifted her hands from her lap, unfastened the clasp on the portrait, and unfolded the letter that lay within. As she always did, she traced a fingertip over the ragged top edge of the paper, where she had torn away the date and the words My darling Constantia and consigned them to the fire.

The loops of her mother’s handwriting ran off the edge of the page. There had once been a second page to the letter, but Constantia had burned that, too, rather than risk it falling into the wrong hands.

But she had never forgotten what it said.

Something like a laugh huffed from Constantia’s chest. How very like her mother to believe in such errant nonsense. Joys and care and worst of all, love .

She hadn’t intended to look at the picture, but of course, it had been painted to draw the eye. Her mother had indeed been a beautiful woman, her soft, lush figure a reflection of her upbringing in a far different world than the one that had made Constantia so lean and hard.

This time, however, it was her mother’s eyes that she found particularly compelling, their expression a potent mix of mischief and desire. And sorrow? She could not decide whether the painter—her father—had caught a glimpse of sadness, or whether her own misery had clouded her vision and made her see something that was not really there.

Oh, knowing what she did, how could she have let herself fall prey to her mother’s delusion? How could she have given herself, body and soul, to a man who would never be hers?

In order to escape sorrow, one must also avoid all the passions in life.

Well, she hadn’t avoided them, had she? She had stepped willingly into the fire. She had danced in the flames and basked in his warmth like some mythical salamander.

And even if it left her heart a cinder, she would not regret that golden afternoon.

Hearing footsteps on the stairs, she folded away the letter, closed the portrait case, and returned it to the depths of her valise. When she stepped into the doorway to the schoolroom she met Georgiana, who was the first to enter.

“Miss,” she said rather cheekily, “you look tired.”

She was tired. Exhausted, in fact. Night after night, she had stayed late in the studio, painting by candlelight, though it was far from ideal. And then she had risen early in the morning to do the same before lessons began. Two days earlier, and well before the promised fortnight, Lady Posenby had sought her out in the schoolroom to enquire after her progress. She had been surprised and pleased to learn that Constantia was nearly done.

But Constantia had grown accustomed to working to a deadline, thanks to the magazine. She was determined to finish this commission quickly and without running the risk of another sitting, another hour alone with Alistair.

She must be—she would be—content with her memories and sketches of him, and nothing more.

“Then perhaps we ought to work today on sketching people,” she told Georgiana. Laying her hands on either side of her face, she tugged her cheeks downward, comically contorting her expression. “Lined, aged faces are always the most interesting to draw.”

Behind Georgiana, Frederica and Danielle laughed and made silly faces at one another. “Oh, yes, let’s!”

None of them but Harriet was ready, artistically speaking, for the challenges posed by drawing human features. But she could certainly introduce the topic, tie it to her previous lessons on angles and space and light, and offer a few practical, preliminary steps.

“Where is Lady Edwina this morning?” she asked as she opened her own sketchbook to a blank page and propped it against a stack of books so that the others could see as she drew.

“She told Mrs. Swetley a child in the village had been struck with fever and the family required assistance,” said Danielle. “She set out just after dawn. Alone.”

At that, Frederica and Georgiana exchanged knowing glances, but nothing more was said.

An early-morning assignation with her curate, perhaps? But Edwina—as prim and proper as any cartoon of her brother Miss C. had ever made—hardly seemed the type.

Then again, Edwina and Mr. Forster had been waiting a long time to marry. In spite of his religious vocation and her gentle and quiet nature, they were only human and presumably subject to all the ordinary human frailties, including desire.

A quarter of an hour later, as Constantia was explaining how to properly proportion a face and how best to approach the obvious difficulties of the nose, a servant appeared in the doorway with a message for her from Lady Posenby, who evidently had elected not to climb the stairs this time to deliver it herself.

“She wishes to say, miss, that she would like to present the portrait of Lord Ryland to the family at a small celebration on Thursday.”

Tomorrow.

There was no question, nothing really to be answered, but all the same, Constantia said, “You may tell her ladyship that the painting will be done.”

It would be a bit of a stretch, requiring another long night in the studio, but she was glad to have the occupation. It kept her mind from wandering to other things, even when the subject of the portrait was Alistair himself.

She had trained herself to focus on lines and angles and brushstrokes when she painted, just as she had been trying to explain to the girls.

“Now, as I was saying...” She turned her attention again to her pupils, who were looking eagerly at one another, and then pointed at her sketchbook. “The portraitist must exert great control over his pencil as well as his brush, attending to the smallest detail in order to avoid making a flaw where there wasn’t one, or emphasizing an existing flaw better left omitted.”

No one was listening. The four sisters had all begun chattering animatedly to one another the moment the servant had left the room.

“A party? Here?”

“Not like Aunt Josephine to—”

“Seems to me an awful lot of fuss over a picture of Alistair.”

Constantia rapped her pencil against the table to call for quiet, which fell only when Danielle gave an emphatic “Shush!”

“You’ll come, won’t you, miss?” That was Frederica, and the question caught Constantia off guard.

“Your aunt’s message was not meant to be an invitation, I’m sure,” she explained. “Merely a polite way of informing me”—Danielle coughed at the suggestion her aunt was capable of politeness—“when she expects the portrait to be done.”

“But you’re the artist,” Harriet countered in an insistent tone. “The guest of honor.”

Constantia scoffed but Georgiana said, “Why else would anyone throw a party to look at our brother?”

Heat prickled Constantia’s cheeks as she recalled just how hungrily she had studied every detail of the man’s body. “I believe you’re forgetting that the entire purpose of the portrait is—”

“To show him off to girls with wealthy papas. Yes, yes.” Georgiana somehow sounded both bored by the explanation and aghast at the prospect.

“I was going to say ‘to highlight your brother’s many appealing qualities,’” Constantia finished, raising one brow.

Harriet tried and failed to stifle a giggle. “ Many appealing qualities ?” she repeated, sounding incredulous. “Can you really do all that? For Alistair? I can’t wait to see it. Oh, miss, you must come!”

Constantia felt her resolve weakening, but she managed to shake her head. “I have nothing to wear appropriate for a celebration, small or otherwise, in the home of the Earl of Ryland.”

For a moment, that restored a thoughtful hush to the room. Then Danielle said, “I have a dress you can borrow. It’s two seasons old, but I doubt that will matter.”

It was at once an extraordinarily generous gesture and a reminder of Constantia’s place. She dipped into a shallow, stiff curtsy. “Thank you.”

She hadn’t intended to accept the offer, but Georgiana and Frederica immediately seized upon it and chimed in with, “We can arrange your hair.”

“And I’ll loan you my pumice stone,” said Harriet, with a sheepish smile. Ink- and charcoal-stained fingertips were an affliction they shared.

Constantia parted her lips, on the point of giving in to the pleas—and her own wishes—when Edwina burst into the room. Her normally neat coiffure was disordered and damp. Breathless, she collapsed onto the farthest chair.

“Eddie!” Danielle gasped. “What happened?”

Edwina gave a feeble wave to indicate that answering questions was presently beyond her.

Constantia stepped into her room and poured clean water from the pitcher on the washstand into a tumbler. Parting the sea of sisters, she offered it to Edwina. “Drink this.”

While Edwina alternated between sips of water and deep, shaky breaths, the others all had a chance to examine her appearance. Her hems were muddy, which was only to be expected if she’d had a long walk. But her skirts were also torn in two places, and the palms of her gloves were scuffed and stained with something that might have been blood.

Constantia recognized all the indications that Edwina had fallen, or been pushed, onto her hands and knees.

“Tell us what happened,” Danielle urged again when her sister’s breathing had slowed a little.

“I—I was returning from the village and decided to take the shortcut across the moor, rather than be late for our lesson.” She sent Constantia an apologetic glance that pierced her to the quick. “I was almost halfway here when a t-tall man stepped out from behind a cairn and spoke to me. His voice was strange. He was strange. I started to tell him that I had nothing for him, that my basket was empty, when he reached out and grabbed me by the arm.” A collective cry rose from her audience. “My hood fell back and he looked right into my face. Oh! I shall never forget that scowl. He said something more, but by that time I was too frantic to catch the words. My basket was in my other hand, so I swung it at his head and that startled him enough that he let me go. I fled, but I stumbled, twice,” she said, plucking at the rents in her skirt, “and fell down. I raced all the way home.”

“Did he follow?” demanded Danielle.

Edwina shook her head. “I don’t think so.” She paused to gulp down the final swallow of water that remained; the tumbler shook in her hand. “I knew you’d all be here, so I came right up. I didn’t want to alarm the servants, and with Alistair gone, I didn’t know what else to do—”

“Alistair—I mean, Lord Ryland—is away from home?” Constantia repeated.

Her slip seemed to have gone unnoticed. “He told us at dinner a few days ago that he had to meet with a solicitor in Exeter. He left the next morning,” explained Harriet.

Frederica added, “He’s due back tomorrow.”

That explained why Lady Posenby had chosen Thursday evening for the unveiling of her portrait.

Had he left Rylemoor to avoid seeing Constantia?

None of that mattered, of course, not in the face of what had happened to Edwina. She was peeling off her gloves and making motions for her sisters to return to their seats. “Please,” she said. “I’m all right.” Her fingers trembled as she reached up to untie her cloak. “I’d rather not talk about it anymore. Can’t we just return to the lesson?”

Reluctantly, her sisters obliged. As Constantia turned toward the table at the front of the room, she glanced instinctively out the windows, as if she expected to see the monster who had attacked Edwina lurking somewhere just outside. But a drizzly rain had shrouded everything in mist.

When she faced the class, she saw that Edwina had risen to remove her cloak and watched as she laid it over an unused chair. Previously only the checked lining of the garment, flung back from her shoulders, had been visible.

But now that Constantia could see what the cloak was made of, her pulse began to throb in her temples and all the strength left her legs.

Gray-green wool, remarkably similar to the mantle she had purchased at Price’s Mercantile. In fact, if she hadn’t just seen her own mantle hanging in her bedroom when she’d gone to fetch the water, she might have thought they were one and the same.

Had the hulking stranger on the moor in fact been looking for her?

For days, she had been presented with signs that it was time for her to leave Rylemoor: The bruise on her cheek had all but vanished, her wrist was better, Mrs. Swetley had laundered and mended all her gowns. And of course the most obvious sign that she’d overstayed was her foolish infatuation with the Earl of Ryland himself.

She had ignored every one of those signs.

But this? This was different. She glanced back at Edwina, whose cheeks were still flushed red from the exertion of fleeing a would-be predator.

Constantia was putting others at risk, just as she’d feared.

Tomorrow, once she had presented Lady Posenby with the finished portrait and been paid for it, she must be gone.