Chapter Thirteen
Two days later, Titus sat at his writing desk. There was another letter from Henry, so he was contemplating his walls rather than open it.
He had feared the Thorpes might object to the removal of the old mistress’s paintings, largely her own work along with some uninspired watercolours of London vistas, but in fact Mrs. Thorpe had assisted in taking them down and removing boxes full of vases, china ornaments, and faded lace while she was at it.
Perhaps Alma had got tired of dusting it all.
In any case, Miss Whitecross’s multitude of things had gone, replaced so far by Titus’s few framed paintings, with plenty of space for the remainder of his collection once it was all framed in its turn.
“Collection” seemed a somewhat grand word for his motley assortment of oils, watercolours, and prints, portraits, landscapes, and still lifes: a selection of gifts or payments in lieu from the artists who had frequented his shop.
All the same, their cumulative effect would, he thought, be rather pleasing.
The oils were rich, the watercolours evocative, and the lines satisfying.
It wasn’t a set of masterpieces, but he had no reason to feel apologetic about covering his walls in these works.
They wouldn’t be nearly enough for this house, though, and he was considering buying more. He knew plenty of artists whose works he liked, had some pieces in mind that he’d quietly longed for more sight of. And he had seen some things at the Royal Academy Exhibition …
He could actually buy paintings from the Royal Academy Exhibition.
That realisation, along with the conversation after Greenwich, had brought the scale of his good fortune into sudden, stunning focus that had left him breathless, and given him a rush of determination to live up to it.
Not to shrink away, or squeeze himself into other people’s ideas of what he should do, but instead to discover what felt right to him.
That meant he would explore the interest in art he had so often been told was self-indulgent. He had decided to start funding the constantly needy Indigent Artists’ Society, as a first step in sharing his good fortune. And he was going to learn to paint.
In that daring spirit he had contacted Gideon Marks, a painter he knew to be a respected teacher.
Gideon had not told Titus he was too old to learn, or found the suggestion absurd for a grown man, or worried that his pupil might disgrace him.
In fact, he’d seized the opportunity with both hands, and they were to begin at once.
Titus was trying very hard to remember that he was learning for his own pleasure and edification, and he was not obliged to justify it to anyone.
Limitless effrontery, Nico had said. Titus would give a lot to have even limited effrontery. He was sure it would make life easier.
Henry had effrontery, or at least, he had never seemed embarrassed about how he behaved with Titus.
And he certainly didn’t seem put off by Titus’s silence, because he kept writing.
There were three unopened letters currently throbbing like bad teeth in Titus’s desk, as well as this latest one.
Titus spent quite a lot of time telling himself that Henry could do nothing, wouldn’t dare make a scene, would surely give up and leave him alone soon, but his former lover was a continual source of unease all the same.
Only unease, though, rather than the profound unhappiness he’d felt before. Maybe that was the passage of time, but Titus rather thought it was Nico.
Titus tried not to dream about Nico. Inheriting a fortune had been merely unlikely, whereas to have Nico in his bed would be an impossibility, or at least far more good fortune than one man could deserve.
Nico with his radiant eyes, his effortless competence, his intent attention.
His presence in Titus’s house that felt more natural every day, even while being a constant miracle.
In fact, Titus was hopelessly smitten with a man so far out of his class it was absurd, and mooning over him was an entire waste of time and energy, except that it was a surprisingly effective salve to the open wound of Henry.
Because the worst thing about Henry, in the end, had been his good qualities.
He could be sparkling, exciting, full of life, and that was why it had hurt so much when he had instead chosen to be cruel.
There was nothing like the man you cared for saying, in effect, I could be wonderful to you, but I don’t want to, to make you feel utterly worthless, and that was exactly how Titus had felt.
And then Nico had landed in his life like a meteor, and he was all the things Titus had admired in Henry, and so much more.
Considerate of Titus’s feelings, fierce in his defence, interested in his thoughts.
Henry had treated him as an object to be played with.
Nico treated him as though he mattered, as though it were an acknowledged truth of the universe that he mattered, and every time he did it, the open wound hurt a little less.
They might only ever be friends, but a good friendship was so very much better than a bad love affair, and he should remember that, even if the yearning sometimes felt it might kill him.
On that thought, he added Henry’s latest letter to the guilty heap, topped it with a new letter from Augustus that he also didn’t have the strength to open yet, decided that was quite enough administrative work for the day, and rang for tea. Mr. Thorpe brought the tea and cakes in himself.
“Oh, is it Alma’s half day?” Titus asked. “I thought that was tomorrow.”
“She took it today.” Mr. Thorpe hesitated a fraction. “May I speak to you, sir?”
That sounded slightly worrying. “Of course. Would you sit down? Tea?”
Mr. Thorpe gave him a look that indicated how inappropriate the latter would be in this room, but took one of Miss Whitecross’s spindly chairs. He was a large man. Titus considered new chairs, and reminded himself not to run mad with spending. “What is it, Mr. Thorpe?”
“Your valet. Mr. Perreau.”
That was an unexpected subject. Perreau was Titus’s man and, unlike other male staff, did not report to the butler. Obviously he would have to fit into the complex weave of below stairs, but Titus hadn’t thought twice about the matter. He’d assumed the servants arranged it between themselves.
The valet was a short, thin, somewhat fragile-looking fellow with a pale, sharp face, straw-yellow hair, and chestnut eyes very like Nico’s own vibrant shade.
Titus supposed that was a French characteristic.
He was a very competent valet so far as Titus was qualified to judge; he took care of clothes well and could tie a cravat and wield a razor far better than Titus.
He spoke rarely, in a light voice with a strong accent.
Titus had heard him talking to Nico in French sometimes, at terrifying speed.
It always sounded disturbingly argumentative to his English ear.
“What about Perreau?” he asked. “I hope there isn’t a problem?”
“That is for you to decide,” Mr. Thorpe said. “Alma and Mr. Perreau are walking out.”
Titus considered his options. “That’s nice?” he tried.
Mr. Thorpe didn’t quite roll his eyes. “Most households don’t permit the staff to have personal affections, sir.”
“You can’t stop people having affections,” Titus said.
“That is, you can try but it doesn’t work.
I was apprenticed myself, you know.” He had no idea if his master would have enforced the rule against courting young ladies—the situation hadn’t arisen—but plenty of his peers had found ways around the restrictions of their indentures.
“I don’t really know what is considered proper or normal in this situation,” he went on, feeling his way. “I assume you would act if you feared any risk to Alma’s well-being, and otherwise I don’t think it’s any affair of mine, is it? Unless there is anything else I should be considering.”
Mr. Thorpe tensed a little. He was rather red in the face.
“You might not be aware, sir, that Alma left us for a place as lady’s maid at Mrs. Stukeley’s a couple of years ago.
There was…” He hesitated. “A falling-out with another servant over matters of affection. Mrs. Stukeley wouldn’t give her a reference after, but Miss Whitecross very kindly took her back here. ”
A below-stairs love affair gone wrong, Titus interpreted.
Hardly surprising, since Alma was very pretty and clearly strong-willed, but very much the sort of thing that could ruin a girl’s reputation, professional and personal.
No wonder the Thorpes were protective; no wonder they had loved Miss Whitecross.
“The mistress put a stop to any criticism she heard, so the chatter died down,” Mr. Thorpe went on. “But the neighbours may start talking again if Alma is seen courting, and—well, gossip spreads, sir.”
Titus knew that very well. Red Lion Street held houses as well as shops, and life with his neighbours had been underpinned by a continual buzz of critical observation: this slatternly maid, that unmanaged household, the other unruly apprentice.
People held strong views on keeping the lower orders in line, and Carey Street was a superior address to Red Lion Street so that would be all the more important here.
If Titus’s household was seen to encourage loose behaviour, his neighbours would talk, and Titus hated being talked about.
Nico ignored talk. Miss Whitecross hadn’t cared about it. And Titus owed his fortune to Mr. Thorpe.