The Prisoner (24 page)

When Vincent had learned that Cassandra was finally pregnant after more than six years of marriage, he had unashamedly hoped for a son. A son would inherit his title and his holdings and leave an important mark upon the world. When little Emmaline was handed to him in his study an hour after her birth, her face all pink and shriveled and squalling, he had known a moment of wretched disappointment. He tried to give her right back to the nurse, but the frazzled woman said she had to fetch something immediately for his wife and bolted from the room. And so he was forced to carry Emmaline up the long staircase himself to deliver her back to his wife's bedroom. Somewhere along the way Emmaline stopped crying and settled contentedly in his arms. She opened her blue eyes and regarded him with quiet satisfaction, as if to say that she had only been crying for him, and now that she had found him, all was well. It was in that moment that Vincent discovered what he had believed was the purest form of love.

The knowledge that he had been wrong burned a deep, agonizing hole through him.

He set down his glass and went to the window, pulling back the cold, musty drape so he could look out at the frozen street below. He did not know for certain that the man known as Maxwell Blake was, in fact, the Marquess of Redmond. Tomorrow he would keep vigil near the house, and every day after that, until he caught a glimpse of him and determined his identity.

If he did turn out to be the man who had destroyed his life, then Vincent would make very sure that this time he succeeded in killing him.

Chapter Ten

H
ERE
'
S A BONNY ONE OF SOME BOATS ON LOCH
Fyne.” Oliver placed the painting on the worn sofa in the drawing room so that Haydon could better appreciate it. “That would be good for someone who fancies the water—don't ye think?”

“Possibly,” Haydon allowed, critically examining the work. The brush strokes Genevieve had used were quick and soft, giving the boats and the loch a fluid, almost dreamy feeling.

“I like this one better,” declared Annabelle as she and Grace plopped a rendering of a vase of flowers onto a chair. The amethyst and pink blossoms were drooping slightly, and a single petal had fallen onto the linen of the table on which the vase stood, marring its otherwise pristine surface. “The flowers look so terribly sad—almost as if they were crying.” She sighed with pleasure.

Haydon had to agree. Genevieve made no effort to execute a precisely realistic rendition of what she saw, but instead filtered her work through her own emotions and sensibilities. The result was stirring.

“Here's one that she painted of me and Simon last summer,” said Jamie, dragging his corner of the painting along the floor, while Simon supported the other.

“She said it was of two men getting ready to sail the world,” explained Simon proudly.

In the painting the two boys were sailing their little wooden ships upon a stream. They were shown from behind, with their clothes rumpled and their hair ruffled by the same wind that was fluffing the sails of their small boats. The scene was sunny and had an almost tangible lethargy to it, as if the afternoon would never end. But a narrow strip of clouds painted in the distance was ominously leaden, suggesting that the boys' game, and perhaps by extension their childhood, would soon be brought to an end.

“I like this one.” Jack deposited a portrait of Charlotte on the sofa beside the painting of the boats. “It really looks like you, Charlotte.”

Charlotte regarded the painting with shy uncertainty, secretly pleased that Jack thought her as pretty as the girl on the canvas. “Do you think so?”

Genevieve had painted Charlotte seated in a chair, quietly reading a book. Her gown was drawn tight about her narrow waist before it fell in a generous puff to the floor, giving no hint of where her legs might be beneath it. But upon the floor by the hem of her skirts lay a single, creamy rose, with thorns protruding in sharp green spikes along its stem. If Charlotte bent to retrieve the rose, it seemed certain that she would prick herself upon its thorns. But if she left it where it lay, the rose would wither and die. It was a simple enough quandary to the casual observer, but Haydon found the image troubling, for he sensed that the rose was a metaphor for Charlotte's crippled leg.

It was clear that Genevieve could not help but infiltrate her work with her private perception of the world around her. It was this seductive, haunting quality that Haydon hoped would make an indelible impression on prospective buyers.

“That's the last of the wee ones,” huffed Doreen, planting another painting beside the two that were already precariously balanced upon the mantel. “Jack and Ollie will have to bring up the rest.”

Eunice planted her hands upon her plump hips as she inspected the makeshift exhibition. “There's no more room in here, so we'll have to start piling the rest of them around the dining room—”

“What in the world are you doing?” demanded an astonished voice.

Haydon's chest seemed to constrict when he saw Genevieve standing in the doorway.

The flame-gold hair that had poured like warm silk over his hands and across his pillow the night before was now tightly pinned into a proper arrangement, and the dark, chastely buttoned gown she had selected would have been appropriate for the most formidable of dowagers to wear to a funeral. Had he not experienced the passion that had blazed between them, he might have thought he was in the presence of a virgin nun. Genevieve's skin was pale and the dark circles that bruised the area beneath her eyes suggested that her night had been as sleepless as his. He knew it had taken courage for her to come down to the drawing room and face him, and he had no desire to make it any more difficult for her. All he sought now was to restore some security and comfort to her and her household.

Once he was certain she would not lose her home he would leave, so as not to put any of them at further risk.

“His lordship here thinks he can get someone to buy yer paintings,” said Doreen excitedly.

Oliver scratched his white head, unconvinced. “I suppose they're a sight better than most o' the dribble and rot some folk hang on their walls.”

“At least the people in them are decently dressed.” Eunice surveyed the canvasses with approval. “Ye could hang them anywhere and nae be ashamed, or need to drape a cloth over them when there are ladies and wee ones present.”

“If Haydon sells enough of them, then we'll have the money to pay the bank and we won't have to worry about being on the street,” added Jamie happily. “Isn't that wonderful?”

Genevieve affected a frozen calm as she looked at Haydon. She had remained in her chamber for as long as she felt she could that morning, trying to summon the composure she needed in order to face him without betraying her shame over the intimacies they had shared the night before. Unfortunately, the sight of him coolly analyzing her precious paintings, which he had apparently ordered the rest of the household to dig through and line up around the house, shattered that composure.

“Why are you doing this?” Her voice was brittle.

“Because we need to find a way to meet your obligations to the bank,” Haydon replied. “I have been through all the other items that are stored in your cellar, and unfortunately, there is really nothing there of any consequence. Your paintings, however, are extremely well done. I believe if we can get a gallery to show your work, you will be able to sell enough canvases to satisfy a significant portion of your debt.”

“My work isn't good enough to sell,” Genevieve informed him, feeling exposed and humiliated. Her work was very personal, and she had no illusions about its value. “It's only portraits of the children and simple little scenes of boats and flowers and landscapes. No one would want to buy them. People prefer paintings that are grand and heroic in their subject matter.”

“Unless there are naked ladies in them,” piped Jamie. “People seem to like that.”

“Here now, that's enough of that talk,” scolded Eunice.

“I believe you are wrong, Genevieve,” Haydon countered. “There is a growing movement away from painting gods and heroes and violent episodes of history and mythology. Your paintings reflect the scenes of your life—modest, quiet, fleeting moments, to which many people can easily relate. And more, they are suffused with emotion. One cannot look at any of your paintings without being drawn into them and feeling something.”

“He's right, lass,” said Oliver. “I look at these boats here and I'm thinkin', 'twould be nice to have fish for dinner tonight.”

“Ye know there's no fish to be had tonight,” Eunice scolded. “It's Sunday.”

Genevieve stared warily at Haydon, wondering if he was being sincere. Deep within, it pleased her to think that he had looked at her paintings and thought that they were more than just the pleasant work of a woman who amused herself by dabbling with a paintbrush. She had sketched and painted for as long as she could remember, but after her father died and she had taken Jamie in, her painting had changed dramatically. Isolated and afraid, she had needed some way of expressing her joys and fears and frustrations, and painting had become that venue. Every work within that drawing room held special significance to her that went far beyond the depiction of its subject matter. It was as if her happiness and her suffering were saturated into the very paint, and each stroke bonded some small part of her forever to the canvas.

Was it possible that Haydon was able to sense the passion with which she had created these canvases? And if he could, did that mean that perfect strangers would be able to recognize it as well, and be willing to pay for them?

No, she suddenly realized, angry with herself for being so foolish. “No one in Inveraray would ever host an exhibition showing the work of a woman,” she told him flatly. “Nor would anyone here think that my work was of any value. People may be willing to pay me for painting their children's portraits, but that is far different from purchasing my other work solely based on its own merits.”

“You're right,” Haydon agreed. “But I do not intend to secure an exhibit for your work in Inveraray. There is not enough of a market here to command the prices I believe your paintings warrant. I am going to try to arrange for a showing in Glasgow.”

It was clear to Genevieve that Haydon did not understand the intrinsic male exclusivity of the art world. “No art dealer in Glasgow will grant a woman artist an exhibition either.”

“Which might be a problem, were I to reveal that this work is by a woman.” Haydon stood in front of the portrait of Charlotte, considering. “I'm thinking a French name would work well. In my experience, Scottish art dealers have a great fondness for representing something that was created elsewhere. It instantly gives the work a certain credibility and mystique.”

“That's true for them that buys the paintings as well,” said Eunice. “Lord Dunbar's house was full of all kinds of pictures, and not one of them was by a good, honest Scotsman. They all came from Italy and France and England—as if those lads know more about slappin' paint on a piece of cloth than our own.” She huffed with disapproval.

“Are you suggesting that we say that my paintings were created by a Frenchman?” Genevieve wasn't certain she cared for that idea.

“I realize it isn't the perfect solution,” Haydon acknowledged. “But if we hope to secure a showing of your work and create some interest in it, I believe that is our best strategy.”

“I think it's very romantic,” Annabelle decided with approval. “French names sound so elegant.”

“I think they sound silly,” said Simon. “Like someone is trying to spit something up from the back of their throat.”

“I won't do it, Genevieve, unless you are in agreement.” Haydon regarded her intently. “But I believe this is your best chance of raising the money to pay off your debts.”

Genevieve stared at her precious canvases haphazardly arranged around the drawing room. Each one represented some private facet of her life, and by extension, her children's lives. She didn't care for having her world put on display for others to gawk at and analyze and possibly ridicule. And she found the idea of having her work accredited to some fictional man, because the fact that it had been created by a woman undermined its merit in the eyes of others, was truly offensive.

Jamie, Annabelle, Grace, Charlotte, Simon, and Jack were watching her, waiting for her to make her decision. Their expressions were utterly trusting, as if they believed that should she refuse to sell her paintings, then she would just come up with some other way to pay her debts and keep their household going. Oliver, Eunice, and Doreen looked more concerned. They had a far better understanding of the precariousness of their situation.

Ultimately, she realized she had little choice.

“Very well, Lord Redmond,” she said, lamely trying to instill some fragment of formality back into their relationship. “Just tell me with what name you would like me to sign them.”

 

A
LFRED LYTTON TOOK OFF HIS SPECTACLES, POLISHED
them vigorously with his crumpled handkerchief, and then wired them around his generously sized ears once more.

“Extraordinary,” he murmured, bending to take a closer look at the painting. “Utterly extraordinary.” He straightened suddenly and jerked his spectacles off again. “You say this Boulonnais is a friend of yours, Mr. Blake?”

“An old friend,” Haydon assured him. “We met some ten years ago when I was traveling in the south of France. Of course, at that time his work was completely unknown. I had the privilege of visiting him at the crumbling old farmhouse he still uses for his home and studio. Even then, I had the sense that he was going to develop into a very fine artist. I had no idea at that time, however, just how great his talent would be.”

“Indeed.” Mr. Lytton raked his gaze over the five paintings that Haydon had brought to his gallery.

“Of course, when I wrote to him about the idea of exhibiting his work in Scotland, he was not immediately enthusiastic.” Haydon wanted the art dealer to feel as if he were achieving a remarkable coup by arranging the exhibition. “I'm afraid it is well known that he is something of a recluse. Never married. Rarely ventures from his home. He deplores everyone and anything that might take him from his work, you see. Likes to paint at all hours of the day or night, without stopping to eat or sleep. I suppose one might say he is a bit of an eccentric, really.”