Chapter 15
“If Amelia was taken to a sanatorium, it would have been Thomas Higgins who took her,” Georgia reasoned, walking alongside Hermione Archer through the gardens of Westvale. Or what passed for gardens.
Hermione had come to Westvale to visit. Georgia was glad of it; it gave her the chance to talk of her fears for Amelia and how she might act upon them.
Today, another subject burned within her, but she daredn’t bring it up to her friend.
The subject of what she had allowed Keaton to do to her and what might have happened had they not been interrupted.
Lord Swinthorpe’s arrival had ended what might have been the consummation of their marriage, though he did not know what he had done.
“He is the household's only driver besides me. I can drive the trap.”
“I see you are determined to make a mystery out of this when there are far more interesting topics I should like to discuss,” Hermione wiggled her brows and nudged her friend’s elbow, “but I shall indulge you. What is the significance of that fact?”
“Why, he will know where she was taken. Because he drove her there,” Georgia deduced as though it was the most obvious conclusion, “what would you rather be talking about?”
Hermione laughed. “Are you so blind? Perhaps the tale of your dinner at Lord Swinthorpe's house, which resulted in your husband nearly losing his life!”
Georgia stooped to sniff a wildflower that was emerging from a mass of weeds in a flower bed.
“That was an exaggeration,” she pointed out.
“Your exaggeration in your relaying of that particular evening. You tell me that he slashed his arm on broken glass, that he was jealous...”
“His uncle happened along, but by then the bleeding had stopped and all was well,” Georgia finished hastily.
She resumed her walking, feeling her friend's eyes on her back.
“How did he come to cut himself?” Hermione asked.
“He fell in the dark.”
“Why was it dark?”
“He is blind, it is always dark for him,” Georgia remarked, “it really is a marvellous day, isn't it? I just wish the gardens were not so unruly.”
Hermione hurried to catch up with her. Georgia knew that her face was scarlet and that Hermione was worldly enough to know what that meant.
“Will you tell me why you and your husband of convenience were alone together in a dark room?” she asked bluntly, one eyebrow raised high.
Georgia sighed. She was not comfortable discussing intimate matters with her friend, but part of her wanted to. Part of her took pride in the degree of arousal she had managed to elicit from Keaton.
“There was a misunderstanding. I was looking for Lady Alison and found him there. We... argued, and he lost his bearings and fell. That is all there is.”
“Hmm, when a man and woman argue, there is often a period of... rapprochement, shall we say? Which has clearly taken place, judging by your demeanour. It is often referred to as, ‘kiss and make up’?”
If Georgia had thought she was scarlet before, it was nothing compared to the heat she felt rising in her face now. Hermione clapped her hands together and laughed in delight.
“It is nothing to be embarrassed about, dear Georgie! You are married after all. Nothing could be more natural. And, quite frankly, I think you should be getting more out of this arrangement while it lasts.”
“I am getting plenty, thank you,” Georgia murmured, looking away to hide her face.
She glimpsed movement at an upstairs window, then, as she glanced back towards the house.
She frowned as the figure lingered at the window.
She did not yet know the geography of Westvale and could not have said which room that particular window looked into.
Keaton would have no reason to be standing, staring out of a window.
“Who is that?” Hermione asked.
“I do not know. I did not hear a carriage arrive, did you?” she replied distractedly.
“No. Is it not your husband? He cannot bear not to be looking at you for too long... oh.”
Georgia gave her a significant look, and Hermione colored.
“I see...” her friend trailed off.
“Quite. Whoever he is, though, I fancy he is looking in this direction.”
“Then it must be a servant, and he is not looking, but dusting. We were talking about what you can get out of this relationship, Georgia. I think you should be more ambitious.”
Hermione took her arm and steered her away from the house so that they turned their back on the water. But Georgia could feel the silhouette’s eyes upon her. A male servant would not be tasked with dusting. That would be for the maids.
I have heard enough female servants complaining about the distribution of tasks based purely on gender to know.
“I am not sure, Hermione,” she answered finally. “Things feel very precarious. Swinthorpe, I think, would like to see my back. Keaton would as well... part of the time. He doesn't seem to care as long as we achieve our objectives.”
“Hang them both!” Hermione shouted passionately, “You have a window of opportunity. A narrow one that is closing rapidly. I say, this is your chance for a taste of freedom. Let us make a list of things that you will forever regret not doing if you have not achieved them by the time this inconvenient marriage of convenience comes to an end.”
Georgia found the notion somewhat attractive. She smiled, mind already conjuring a number of notions that she would not have considered otherwise.
If I look at it as now or never. Which it may well be. Once this is over, I will have no choice but to go back to Silverton. Then my freedom will be severely limited.
“I see you already have a few things in mind,” Hermione said excitedly, “as do I. But let me hear your ideas first!”
Georgia glanced back at the window, but the watcher was gone. She licked her lips, took a deep breath, and began to list some of the things she would do if this were her last chance to do them. Hermione laughed and offered her own suggestions.
Georgia was somewhat scandalized but found Hermione's ideas more daring than her own. More enticing...
“Blast it!” Keaton roared as the chisel slipped again and sliced the palm of his left hand.
His forearm ached where the glass had driven itself into the muscle, and it was affecting the dexterity of his gesticulations.
Thorne had just left, slipping through the servants' wing.
Keaton had instructed him by letter to be circumspect when he arrived that morning. He did not want Georgia to know.
Why I am being so cloak-and-dagger, I do not know. It is unlike me to waste time on such secrecy.
The investigation into his accident, as Edric called it, was no further forward. Or rather, the progress made was so slow as to be almost indistinguishable from a position of standing still. It had left him in a sour mood, and now he sought to escape it through sculpture.
He threw down the chisel and put his hand to his mouth, tasting the blood there.
The stone at which he worked defied him, giving up the shape he had visualized very slowly.
Keaton crossed the room in which he housed his modelling and sculpting.
It was at the highest level of the house and had tall windows along one wall.
He remembered the room being bright and airy, like being outdoors and indoors at the same time.
It made no difference to him now, of course. The room might as well have been in a lightless cellar. But he knew the brightness was there, could almost feel it as a light touch upon his skin. That made a difference. Not today, though.
There came a tap at the door, then a voice.
“Keaton?” Georgia’s familiar rasp carried through the wood.
Keaton cursed. He had been distracted enough that he hadn't heard Georgia on the staircase that led up to the room. He heard the door open before he could reach it.
“Come in, why don't you?” he said drily, turning away and producing a handkerchief from his pocket.
“I heard you cry out,” she said.
“Did you? I am surprised you heard anything originating in this room unless you were already on your way here.”
“I can assure you I was not,” she defended pointedly. “Have you hurt yourself?”
He grunted. “I seem to be making a habit of it.”
He sat down, knowing there was a cup of tea within reach. He found the cup and touched it to his lips before grimacing.
“Cold?” Georgia asked. “The pot is over here, and it feels hot still. Oh, and please do not tell your Uncle. I have never been accused of attempted murder, but I think he wanted to.”
Keaton listened to the sound of liquid being poured and felt the porcelain cup he held begin to heat up.
“He does not think you tried to murder me. He did not say that,” Keaton said in his Uncle's defense.
“I think he might if he and I had been alone.”
“No, he would not. He was just concerned to find out what had happened.”
“How is your arm?”
Keaton heard her sit.
“What was it you wished to talk to me about?” he said, ignoring her question.
“Am I not permitted to express concern for my husband?”
Keaton raised an eyebrow. Georgia did not reply immediately.
“Oh Lord, you're bleeding!” she said, suddenly, “let me see.”
“It is nothing,” he tried.
“There is a good amount of blood soaking through on that handkerchief. Let me see,” she insisted.
“It is nothing!” Keaton snapped irritably, “Desist!”
“I am only trying to help.”
“I do not need help!”
“I disagree. You patently do.”
There was a moment of silence. Keaton's mind was suddenly filled with the moment at Swinthorpe when they had been interrupted by his uncle. He remembered the feel of her hands upon him and the delicious anticipation, almost as great a thrill as the actual touch.
He assuaged his breath. “As you have noticed, I do occasionally cut myself while sculpting or whittling. It is of no consequence. The bleeding has likely already stopped.”
There was silence. Then came the sound of fabric shuffling, as if Georgia had pressed her elbows to her lap and was leaning forward, chin resting in her hands. “Do you mind if I ask what you were making?”
Keaton waved a dismissive hand. “A bust. I thought perhaps something of nature and mythology. Aphrodite perhaps. It was working to distract myself rather than with a particular purpose in mind. To gather my thoughts.”
He heard her rise, then move about the room, and thought of what lay open to her sight and touch. Part of him resented the intrusion—even Edric was discouraged from coming into this room. Part of him wanted her to see his work.
There is nothing wrong with pride in art. Let her look. In all likelihood, she will not understand what she sees anyway.
“And this is what you are working towards?” Georgia asked.
From the position of her voice, Keaton judged that she stood beside the clay model that he had crafted initially to serve as the template for his stonework.
“Yes, to make my hands familiar with the shape they are bringing the stone to,” he replied.
“It is... quite remarkable,” she breathed.
“A rough model. Nothing more. A guide.”
“It seems very detailed,” she pointed out.
Keaton shrugged, rising and walking towards her.
“Some of my templates are more detailed than others. I do not think so. Once I feel I have the shape mapped into my mind, I move onto a different medium.”
Georgia was silent for a moment, and Keaton frowned, not knowing why.
“Is there something wrong?” he asked.
“Nothing,” she said, a touch breathlessly, “you are… very talented.”
Keaton reached out to the clay bust, tracing his fingers down its brow and over the line of the nose.
“It would not do to make it public. A blind artist would be the center of attention. That he is also a Duke would create a veritable circus.”
Something about the shape under his fingers was familiar.
He concentrated, running his hands back over lips and cheeks, conjuring into his mind's eye the shape whose structure was so tantalizingly familiar.
It was a rather good rendition, he had to admit, polished and refined for a simple template, almost a finished piece.
Silence stretched between them. To Keaton, it felt loaded with significance.
Something about the clay bust had charged the air between them, silencing her and distracting him.
Keaton turned his head in her direction, one hand still on the bust. The perfume was absent, perhaps to conserve the little she had left.
But something guided his unseeing eyes in her direction.
“Well, I will leave you to your creativity. And do not worry. I will tell no one of your hobby,” she whispered.
Before Keaton could respond, he heard rapid footsteps moving away and was left perplexed. The door opened, and the footsteps paused.
“We have received an invitation. To Vauxhall Gardens tomorrow. It was addressed to both of us, so I took the liberty of opening it,” she said.
He suppressed a sigh of irritation. He reminded himself of the importance of being seen in public together to defang the striking serpent of scandal and gossip.
At least it will be outdoors. Fresh air and the smell of flowers and growing things. Not some stifling, confining assembly room or ballroom.
“From whom?” he asked.
“Lady Gertrude, wife of the Earl of East Anglia,” she replied, “I met her at Lord Swinthorpe's house last night and found her pleasant company.”
“Very well. We will attend.”
The footsteps hovered for a little longer. At last, her voice reached him again, “By the way. That bust… did you have anyone in mind when you were creating it?”
Keaton raised his brows. “No, I do not believe so. It was conjured from my imagination. It is intended to be a paragon of female beauty. An unattainable perfection.”
“Then this next part may sound insufferably arrogant,” Georgia added with an awkward chuckle, “but I think it is me.”