The Prisoner (26 page)

Jack stared at the image of the Viking ship. It had never occurred to him that he would ever set foot on a ship. He had never even imagined that he might one day see the world beyond Scotland. But hearing Genevieve speak of it made him feel strangely excited, as if this was a dream that might well be within his reach. And why not? he wondered fiercely. Genevieve said he was smart, and he knew he was a hard worker when it suited him. Perhaps one day he would find work on a ship, and spend his days with nothing but the sky for a roof and the waves rocking beneath him. He studied the turquoise ocean in the engraving and wondered what it would be like to swim in warm water with the sun sparkling on the waves like fallen stars.

Genevieve resisted the impulse to reach out and brush a dark brown curl off Jack's temple. He seemed so young and vulnerable to her in that moment, the desire to wrap her arms around him and hold him was great. But he was not a little boy, she reminded herself, and he would surely resent her attempt to treat him as one. He was a fourteen-year-old youth who had lived a life of constant hunger, instability and need, who had managed to survive on the streets with nothing but his wits and pure determination. In some ways, Jack was far older and more worldly than she was. She only hoped he would ultimately decide to stay with her—at least until he didn't need her protection or her guidance any longer.

“Genevieve.” Jamie was giggling as he called through the door. “We have something for you.”

She smiled, wondering what game the children were playing. “I suppose we have locked ourselves up in here long enough, Jack, and the children are anxious for their tea.”

Jack closed the precious book on ships. “That's all right.” He was feeling strangely privileged at having been able to spend some time with Genevieve alone. “Can we look at this book again tomorrow?”

“I would like that very much.”

“Genevieve, let us in!” pleaded a chorus of voices in the hall, as they banged upon the door.

“Come in,” she said.

The door burst open and the children practically shoved Haydon inside.

“Tell her!” they shrieked, dancing around him. “Tell her right away!”

Haydon reached into his coat pocket and withdrew an envelope, which he placed in Genevieve's hand.

“What's this?” she asked, puzzled.

“Two tickets for the coach to Glasgow. We leave on Friday of next week.”

Her brows drew together in bewilderment. “We're going to Glasgow?”

“We are indeed. The eminent artist Georges Boulonnais is about to have his inaugural Scottish exhibition next Saturday evening. We must select fifteen more of your best paintings and take them over to Mr. Alfred Lytton's gallery tomorrow. He is going to have them shipped to his affiliate gallery in Glasgow, and they will see to it that the works are suitably framed.”

“But we can't afford to go to Glasgow,” Genevieve protested. She was having trouble coming to grips with what Haydon was telling her, so her mind focused on the more mundane aspects of his pronouncement. “We don't have the money.”

“Actually, we do. Mr. Lytton was astute enough to realize that it would be a major coup if the reclusive Monsieur Boulonnais were to make an appearance at this opening. While I could not guarantee such a thing, I did mention that my eccentric friend might be more apt to attend were I there. Since I am newly married and most reticent to travel without my charming wife, Mr. Lytton was kind enough to offer to pay for all our expenses.”

Genevieve stared at him in disbelief. The idea of actually seeing her work for sale in an art gallery was simply inconceivable. “But I cannot leave the children—”

“Of course ye can, lass,” interrupted Oliver. “I'll take good care of them.”

“Dinna let that thought frighten ye,” said Eunice, chortling. “Doreen and I will make sure the children are warm and fed and in their beds by eight o'clock. Ye just go to Glasgow and have a grand time. Dinna worry about a thing.”

“Just think,” said Simon, grabbing her hand with excitement, “your paintings are going to be on display for the whole world to see!”

“Yet no one will know that you are the true artist,” reflected Annabelle dreamily. “One day I shall write a play about it and then perform in it, without ever revealing your true identity.”

“And I'll make all the beautiful costumes for you,” offered Grace, “and people will be so taken by my designs that they will become all the rage in Paris soon afterward, and I shall become rich and famous.” She pursed her lips together suddenly, staring at Genevieve in disapproval. “You aren't going to wear that to Glasgow, are you? You look like you're dressed for your own burial.”

Genevieve's hands flew self-consciously to her plain black skirts. “I do?”

“I can't wear black,” Annabelle informed her with grave earnestness. “It makes my skin look horribly sallow.”

“Genevieve has other gowns to wear,” Charlotte assured them.

“But they're all dark and ugly,” protested Annabelle with childlike candor. “And worn.”

“I'm sure she has one that doesn't look too bad.” Charlotte regarded Genevieve hopefully. “You do have something nice, don't you, Genevieve?”

“Does this mean that we have the money to pay the bank?” wondered Jamie, who could not see anything wrong with Genevieve's dress.

“Not yet,” Haydon replied, “but I strongly suspect that once Genevieve's paintings are handsomely framed and hung, the public will instantly be drawn to them and the works will sell. It may take a while, but—”

“And then we'll have lots of money to pay the bank and we can all live here forever!” squeaked Simon, ecstatic.

“At the very least we should make enough to satisfy the bank for a while,” Haydon agreed, careful to temper their expectations. “But if this exhibition goes well, there is no reason why we couldn't arrange others, in Edinburgh, and maybe London. We shall just have to see how this one goes.”

“It seems to me ye're going to be in need of some flouncier finery if ye're going to be paradin' about Glasgow as the newly wedded Mrs. Blake.” Eunice studied Genevieve up and down with a critical eye. “Seein' as how yer husband is supposed to be an important friend of the artist and all.”

“Well, I don't have anything better, and there's no money to be wasted on such nonsense.” Genevieve's tone was brisk and pragmatic. Secretly, however, she was wishing she had something elegant to wear to the opening. It had been years since she had enjoyed the profound luxury of a new dress, and she had not had a new evening gown since before her father's death.

“Here, Eunice.” Haydon pressed several bank notes into Eunice's hand. “You and Doreen take Genevieve shopping, and make sure she buys something nice for herself.”

Genevieve's eyes grew round. “Where did you get that money?”

“Mr. Lytton gave me an advance against the sales. He said it was to help cover any expenses Monsieur Boulonnais might have, should he decide to travel to Glasgow. And right now,” he added, grinning broadly, “it seems that Monsieur Boulonnais is in need of a new gown.”

 

A
PPLE-GOLD LIGHT RIMMED THE DRAWN DRAPERIES
of the main floor, sending a warm glimmer into the freezing darkness of the street. The heavy curtains effectively blocked the silhouettes of those who moved behind them, leaving Vincent staring in frustration at the home of Mr. and Mrs. Maxwell Blake.

It was only by a monumental force of will that he had managed to remain in the shadows when he had seen Haydon emerge from the front door earlier that day. His recognition of him had been immediate. Haydon had been a regular guest in his home for many years before Vincent learned that the perpetually drunken fool had helped himself to more than just the fine food and drink that Vincent so generously offered. Until then, Vincent had thought of him as little more than a trivial amusement, an insignificant but inevitable addition to any dinner or weeklong party in the country. Haydon played the role of the charming, insouciant younger brother of the Marquess of Redmond, the idle second son who had inherited all of the physical beauty of face and structure, but none of the discipline or wit required of men who actually want to make something of themselves in the world. His total lack of sobriety coupled with his undeniably handsome features and his inheritance made him utterly irresistible to women, who were drawn to him like wasps to a dollop of jam.

Vincent had been amused by the way the weaker sex contrived to throw themselves into Haydon's path at every opportunity, seeking him out for a clandestine rendezvous on the terrace, or in the rose garden, or in some dark corner where they thought their urgent gropings and halfhearted protests would go unnoticed. Haydon's conquests had been as much a form of entertainment as drinking or cards. To make it more of an event, Vincent had taken bets from the other gentlemen guests in the morning as to whose bed their drunken friend had heated the night before.

Vincent had been far from amused, however, the night Cassandra coldly informed him during a moment of pure hatred that his beloved five-year-old daughter had been sired by Haydon.

He had never thought of himself as a passionate man, capable of the capricious emotions of love and hate. He had always been cool, dignified, self-possessed, to the point where Cassandra had accused him of being frozen inside. But she was wrong. He had been cool to her, yes, because his spectacularly indulged wife had never been able to arouse any feelings within him beyond lust, for a time, and then disdain. But his love for Emmaline had surpassed any feelings he had ever held for anything else in his life. And when he learned that his precious daughter was in fact not his, but the result of some sweating, rutting tryst between his wife and a man whom Vincent had tolerated but despised, it was as if the heart that had so recently learned the exquisite pleasure of loving someone had been torn from his chest and crushed to a pulp.

What he had not understood was that love could not be eradicated merely by deciding it was over.

And that there was a far worse pain still to come.

The wash of gold rimming the windows began to be extinguished, room by room, until finally the entire house stood silent and black. Vincent thought of Haydon lying upon a warm bed inside, perhaps with his body pressing against the delicately lush form of the charitable Miss MacPhail, who had so selflessly taken it upon herself to rescue and protect him. He was alive and warm and safe, while Emmaline lay cold and rotting in the ground. The injustice of it was unbearable. Vincent wanted to storm in there and plunge a knife into Haydon's chest where he lay, to see his eyes widen with horror and surprise and watch as the blood poured hot and red across the sheets and onto the floor.

Patience,
he told himself silently.
You must be patient.

Now that he had found Haydon comfortably ensconced in his false identity as Maxwell Blake, husband and father, the mode of his demise had taken a new shape. Vincent had been somewhat alarmed when he had watched him climb into a carriage earlier that day. He had thought that perhaps Haydon was abandoning his masquerade in Inveraray and seeking refuge elsewhere. But after following him to an art gallery where he stayed for well over an hour, he observed Haydon's return to this house. What had intrigued Vincent most was the warm welcome he had received upon his return. The door had swung open and an old man clapped him on the shoulder as if he were a lad, while a jumble of children of assorted heights and ages had crowded around, grabbing him by the hands as if they couldn't wait to drag him off somewhere.

The memory of Emmaline grabbing at his own hands with her chubby little fingers suddenly filled his mind. She was not quite three years old, and she was pulling upon him as she toddled down the corridor.
Where's the puppy, Daddy?
she crooned, leading him to the room in which she had hidden one of her stuffed toys for him to find. It was a favorite game of theirs, and no matter how obvious the toy's placement, Vincent would always make a great show of investigating beneath every chair and sofa, picking up cushions and examining beneath small ornaments, huffing and frowning and looking perplexed, much to Emmaline's delight.

He could not remember precisely when he had first pulled his hand away from her. The memory was blurred because she continued to reach for him, day after day, week after week, pleading with him to follow her. Until the excruciating moment when she finally realized that her daddy didn't want to hold her hand anymore—or hug her, or kiss her, or press his cheek to hers and call her his little princess and hold her tight. Or search for her little puppy.

After that she never reached for him again.

He blinked hard, forcing himself back to the present.

Death is too easy for you, you bastard.

Chapter Eleven

T
HE CITY OF GLASGOW WAS A BOISTEROUS,
crowded place of exceptional beauty and horrendous despair. The cool waters of the River Clyde ran like a pulsing blue vein through its heart, linking it to the Firth of Clyde and ultimately the Atlantic Ocean. This made Glasgow perfectly situated to accommodate the needs of its rapidly expanding industry. Nearly one hundred textile mills dotted its grass-and-stone landscape, and the ironworks and coal mines of the surrounding area fed the boilermakers, shipyards, and marine-engineering shops lining the River Clyde. The flourishing manufacturing led to a nearly insatiable demand for cheap labor. Highland Scots swarmed to the city in the hopes of finding work, only to find that they had to compete with equally desperate Irish, Italian, and Jewish immigrants. Extravagant fortunes were made by a privileged few, who celebrated by erecting magnificent homes and public buildings which were then filled with the finest antiques, furnishings, and art. As for the men, women, and children who sweated and suffered gruelingly long hours in the factories, they dragged themselves home at night to the stinking foulness of the slums, where they waged an ongoing battle against hunger, disease, alcoholism, and violence. Yet even with this squalid underbelly, Glasgow was, without doubt, one of the most glorious cities in Europe.

It was the perfect place for the renowned French painter Georges Boulonnais to be introduced to Scotland.

Genevieve stared in fascination at the woman in the mirror, wondering if she had really changed as much as her reflection suggested. The gown she had chosen with the assistance of Eunice and Doreen was a simple affair of icy gray silk, trimmed with almost transparent layers of cream lace that rippled around the low neckline and fell in softly gathered pleats about the hem. It was not quite the latest fashion, nor was it as lavishly adorned as the other gowns that the woman in the shop had initially presented to her. Eunice and Doreen had swooned and sighed over the elaborate confections of dusty pink, smoky mauve, and leafy green silk, all fancifully beaded and embellished with garish ribbons and bows, ballooning over monumental hooped cages that looked as if they would have knocked over everyone and everything within a five-foot radius.

Years earlier, Genevieve would have delighted in wearing such an outlandish fashion, and would have eagerly anticipated the admiration and attention she would have drawn as she sailed confidently into a room. But that frivolous, spoiled girl did not exist anymore. The woman who stood before the looking glass was an unmarried mother of six who had struggled for years just to keep her young charges fed and dressed and off the streets. The idea of paying an outlandish sum for a ridiculous dress that could be worn only rarely, and never in the same company twice, now struck her as virtually immoral.

Despite its relative simplicity, Genevieve did think her new gown was pretty, and far nicer than anything she had owned for years. The bodice was narrowly molded to her body, creating a slim triangle from her breasts to her waist, at which point her skirts blossomed into a pearly silk bell that was supported by a modest crinoline.

The hotel had sent up a maid at her request to help her dress, as managing the complexities of her corset and crinoline and the endless row of tiny buttons and hooks at the back of the gown would have been impossible on her own. The girl was a pleasant, chatty lass by the name of Alice, who kindly offered to do Genevieve's hair. At first Genevieve protested, thinking she would merely pin it back the way she normally did and hope that it would last reasonably well through the course of the evening. But Alice had pleaded with her, telling her that she didn't often have the opportunity to work with hair as lovely and thick as Genevieve's was, and that she would be enormously grateful if Genevieve would permit her to practice a new style she had seen in a Parisian fashion publication that a friend had sent to her all the way from France. With her request presented so, it would have been almost unkind to refuse her, and so Genevieve relented and permitted the maid to try to tame the massive weight of her hair.

By the time Alice was finished, Genevieve's coral-and-gold hair had been spun into a soft bouquet of curls, which were loosely gathered and pinned low against the back of her neck. Alice had threaded a delicate cluster of tiny pink and ivory blossoms above one ear, which had the dramatic effect of adding a soft splash of color to the gray and cream of her gown. At first Genevieve feared the flowers might be a little too showy, but Alice insisted that they were most appropriate for a woman of her beauty and stature, and that as other women were certain to attend the opening wearing flouncy ostrich feathers and ribbons and even jewels in their hair, no one would think her out of place.

Darkness was creeping across the city on silent feet. Genevieve lit the oil lamps in her room and continued to study herself, unaccustomed to contemplating her appearance for any length of time. Her hair did look quite pretty, she had to admit, and while her gown was plain by the standards of the day, she thought it was entirely acceptable. It was her face, however, that interested her most. There were unfamiliar lines sketched lightly across her forehead, and a fan of smaller wrinkles edged the area around her eyes. When had she developed those? she wondered. She reminded herself that she was no longer a dewy-skinned girl of eighteen, but a twenty-six-year-old woman with countless worried, sleepless nights behind her. There were also, she hastened to add, many moments of joy, as she knew no greater pleasure than the laughter her children could bring bubbling to the surface with the smallest smile or funny gesture. She supposed it was inevitable that her face would start to reflect the evidence of her life. It was disconcerting, however, to notice how much she had changed since the last time she had really studied herself. It had been years since she had sat for any length of time before a mirror, when she was newly betrothed to Charles, and had considered herself exceptionally blessed to have won the attention of such a dashing and sophisticated gentleman as the earl of Linton.

Time had passed with dizzying speed.

There was a knock upon her door. She rose, made a final nervous adjustment to a wayward strand of hair, and went to open it.

Haydon stood in the corridor, elegantly attired in a black evening coat, immaculate white shirt, neatly tied cravat, and fitted oyster-colored trousers. He did not speak, but stared at her in silence, his gaze taking in every inch of her, from the shimmering coils of her hair to the soft flounce of lace trailing against the dark pattern of carpet beneath her. She felt his eyes rest ever so fleetingly upon the milky swell of bosom rising from her gown, then trail down the tight constriction of her bodice, over the flare of her crinolined hips and up again. Her flesh was heated merely by having his eyes graze over it, making her achingly aware that he had taken her breasts in his mouth and suckled the tips, had crushed her body against his until she could scarcely breathe, had dipped his tongue into the most intimate parts of her body and filled her with himself, thrusting into the depths of her and holding her fast until she had no inkling of time or responsibility or regret.

She turned suddenly, feeling uncomfortably hot and breathless, although the room was cool and her gown was not overly tight.

“Good evening,” Haydon said, regaining the composure he had momentarily lost on first seeing Genevieve. He had always known she was beautiful, regardless of whether she was dressed in one of her faded gowns or lying naked against a rumpled swirl of cool sheets. Even so, nothing had prepared him for the loveliness radiating from her in that moment. Her gown was exquisite in its simplicity, for it made no attempt to compete with her beauty, but merely enhanced it. He entered the room and casually tossed his top hat and cloak onto a chair, resisting the urge to take her in his arms and kiss her.

She is not yours,
he reminded himself stiffly.
Regardless of the liberties you have so shamelessly taken with her.

“You look absolutely lovely tonight, Mrs. Blake,” he said, adopting a lighthearted demeanor. “I have no doubt that every man in the gallery will be staring at you in awe. I can see I shall have my hands full trying to keep them at a respectable distance.”

His manner was joking, but his eyes told Genevieve that he really did find her appearance pleasing. Perhaps the lines she had seen on her face were not quite as deep and distracting as she had imagined.

“I must confess, it has been so long since I have attended an affair of any social merit, I had quite forgotten all the attention that must go into dressing for it.” She made a self-conscious adjustment to her gown, which suddenly seemed entirely too low cut. “Fortunately the hotel was able to provide me with a maid who was able to assist me with my gown and my hair.”

Haydon imagined plunging his hands into the soft swirl of daintily arranged curls, plucking the pins loose and dragging his fingers through the fiery-gold silk until it spilled across the snowy mounds of her breasts. As for that gown, he felt reasonably certain he could have it unhooked and slipping down the curves of her delectable body within mere moments.

Disconcerted by his thoughts, he looked away. “There is just one more thing needed to make your ensemble complete.” He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a small crimson box. “Here.”

Genevieve stared at him in surprise. His expression was masked. Hesitantly, she took the box and ran her fingers over its velvety surface, enjoying the rare delight of mystery and anticipation. After a moment, she slowly opened it.

Resting upon a satin cushion lay a gleaming gold band with a small ruby stone embedded in its center.

“It is not nearly as grand as what you deserve,” Haydon said, his voice slightly taut, “but I'm afraid it was the best I could do on such short notice, with rather limited funds. I did think it was about time that Mrs. Maxwell Blake had a wedding ring.”

Genevieve stared in silence at the glowing circle.

At the time of her betrothal, Charles had given her a heavy, ornate ring with a trio of enormous diamonds in its center. It had been a family heirloom, he explained to her gravely at the time, and had graced the hands of three Linton countesses before her. He had then rambled on about who they were and what their accomplishments were, which mostly included stoically bearing children and being glorified hostesses. At the end of this pompous dissertation, he had informed Genevieve that she could take pride in the fact that he had chosen her above countless other potential candidates to wear this ring, and that he was certain she would do the piece justice by making him proud and never giving him cause for embarrassment. Of course, he had angrily demanded it back when their betrothal was broken, as had been his right.

She had never worn any jewelry since.

“It's lovely,” she said softly.

“Here.” Haydon removed the ring from the box and took her hand in his. Her skin felt silky and cool against his palm, and as he leaned closer he was suddenly aware of the delicate scent of orange blossoms. He slipped the ring over the third finger of her left hand. “I'm afraid it's a little big,” he apologized. “We shall have to have it sized when we get home.”

The word “home” fell easily from his mouth. He knew the moment he said it that it was wrong, but he did not correct himself, for fear of drawing them into a discussion in which they had to face the impossibility of their situation. He was well aware that he could not go on pretending to be Maxwell Blake forever. He had a life to reclaim, however empty and indulgent and meaningless it was. Moreover, he was an escaped murderer and his very presence posed a constant danger to Genevieve and her family. He closed his eyes and inhaled the scent of her again, pushing those thoughts aside. Tonight they had an art exhibition to attend, in which the cream of Glasgow's art world would cast its eyes upon the work of the artist Georges Boulonnais and determine whether or not they thought it had merit.

“Come, Genevieve,” he said, gathering her evening cloak in his hands and draping it over her slim, bare shoulders. “There is a carriage outside waiting to take you to your premier exhibition.” He retrieved his own hat and coat and opened the door before gallantly offering her his arm.

There would be time enough to face the stark reality of their lives in the morning.

 

M
R. BLAKE
!
OVER HERE
!”
ALFRED LYTTON FLUTTERED
a skeletal hand in the air as he fought to negotiate his way through the crush of people surrounding him.

“Mr. Lytton,” said Haydon when the bespectacled art dealer finally managed to emerge through two bodies, “it seems your gallery has attracted something of an audience. My dear, you know Mr. Lytton, do you not?” he continued, turning to Genevieve. “I believe you mentioned that your father had bought some paintings from him years ago.”