Chapter 27
Rupert braces against the siren’s wail as the wind kicks up and shoves his hands into his pockets.
Crunching over the pebbled beach, he follows his circuitous route from shore to cave, then up to the eroding widow’s walk, letting his senses expand into deeper awareness, but it’s no good.
Like standing inside a cave, the world around him has dulled.
There’s nothing from which his spirit can pull and create beauty.
Perhaps he won’t ever again.
“You make a piteous widow,” says a sardonic voice behind him.
He turns to face Laura, who’s watching him from the entrance of the widow’s walk with arms folded. “I’m hardly a widow.”
“You’re certainly grieving like one.” She lifts one eyebrow and takes a few steps toward him along the walk. “It’s the anniversary, isn’t it?”
A quick nod.
“How long until you let her go?” She stands before him, her look pitying. “She chose to stay away, you know.”
He’s thought of nothing but Merryn returning to him since the day she left. He fantasizes about it whenever his mind wanders, imagining her walking up the beach, plain gown blowing in the wind around her anything-but-plain self, her expression challenging him. Daring him.
He can paint her from memory, only he cannot paint. Not anymore. He’d thought burning all the paintings of her would be cleansing, but it only left him bereft.
“You ought to travel. Return home to visit family. Haven’t you a brother in Bath? A bit of coddling might do you good.”
“I wouldn’t go to Reginald for coddling.” In fact, he wouldn’t go to Reginald for anything. Not in this life.
“Your parents? You’ve not written them in months.”
He stares at Laura. “How do you know how often I write my parents?”
“I see the post, don’t I? Come back inside, Bert,” says Laura, tugging his arm. “I’ve some tea on. I could make it coffee for you. And there’s someone looking for you.”
Rupert sighs into the wind, shoving the hair back off his forehead. “It’s no good.”
“It’s the best coffee this side of the channel.”
He smiles faintly. She’ll never understand what he means. Like those obligatory kisses to each cheek that don’t quite touch, she always falls just a bit short.
He allows himself to be dragged out of the storm blowing in over the water and wishes it would strike him. She struck him once, lighting up his life, electrifying him.
Inside the lodge, he burns the roof of his mouth with coffee and watches the merriment erupting around him.
Joe and Sally have their fiddles. Cups are clanking, feet are pounding, and bodies are spinning, arm in arm, before passing off to another partner.
Whirl and trade, whirl and trade—one woman, then another, and another.
They all look alike. Any one of them could leave the room without notice and be replaced by another pretty face.
“Ho, there, Bert.”
Rupert cringes at the second use of the moniker he silently despises.
Pete Shelington slides up beside him on the bench. “New blood ’ere,” says Shelington, who’s a sellout. A common portraitist taking commissions from the ton. He simply hasn’t the eye for realism. “Say ’ello, Arthur. Or shall we call you ‘Art’?” He slaps his thigh and laughs.
Blimey. Rupert leans back against the paneled wall behind him, staring down at his half-empty cup. Then he forces a polite smile at the gangly youth. “Hello, Arthur. Welcome to Newlyn School. What is it you paint?”
“Everything. Anything.”
Jack of all trades, master of none.
“That is, anything you might paint, sir. I’ve long admired—that is, I’ve followed you—not that I’m mad, mind you—I genuinely appreciate greatness. And your work, sir, is the finest I’ve ever seen.”
Perhaps Rupert should have followed his father’s footsteps in the Royal Army, for he hasn’t the headspace for nonsense. Rules and regimented work sound appealing, when one does not have to create and produce and imagine, or sift through flattery and subjective opinions.
“Your father warned me you weren’t likely to take on someone so wet behind the ears, but, well—”
“What has my father said about me, exactly?”
The boy’s eyes grow large. Round. “Oh, nothing, really. Only that you wouldn’t be able to teach me much.”
Ah. That sounds about right.
“I assume he meant because you haven’t much time, given how important—”
“I’ll train you.”
The boy’s jaw goes slack. “Truly? You—you will?”
“Stop chattering before I change my mind.”
“Oh. Right. Of course. I—well, I’ll go now. Thank you, sir. Mr. Covington.” He laughs with glee and scampers off.
Rupert leans on his knees and stares at the rough boards under his feet. “He any good, Shelington?”
“He’s sufficiently eager.”
Rupert sighs, shaking his head. “Have him meet me around noon on the beach.”
“Noon? You’re always out early—”
“I said noon.”
Pete’s silent for a moment. “I could have her trailed, you know. See if she might be willing to return.”
“No good.” Rupert shoves his long fingers through his hair. “If she doesn’t wish to be here…well, she might as well stay gone.”
“You never talk about her anymore. And you never told us why she left.”
Mostly because he hasn’t a clue himself. It’s the great mystery of his life, but also a great shame. She chose to leave for unknown reasons, and to stay gone, despite what they’d had. It had been magical—but only to him, apparently.
At times he wonders if he dreamed her up. It isn’t possible for a person to be that beautiful, not in real life.
Jarring laughter erupts and he stands, heading for the stairs. He’s paid his dues for the night, and now he can return to his room in peace.
But a hand stops him. “Those notes, Bert. I hate to push the matter, but the missus wants them paid up.”
The tailor. Four suits for his exhibitions—no, five. He wore none of them, canceled every showing. Perhaps he should try again. But to do that, he needs paintings to sell. He hasn’t created any new ones in over a year now, and he hasn’t painted anything worth selling since life took a tumble.
“Tate says he’s ready for another show come fall. The tourists are pouring through, but that’ll dry up when the snow flies. Best to collect now.”
“Right.”
“Bring your paintings by any time, Bert. He’ll set you up, run the show. You don’t even have to be there.”
But his paintings do, and that’s the difficulty.
“Tell Tate to send inspiration, if he truly wants more to sell.” With a sigh, he pulls his cap on his head and pushes past him.
“I’ll have something by end of month.” Changing direction, he walks alone along the rocky beach, pausing to glance out at the great rambling castle on its own island, the mass of towering stone standing alone in the sea. An island—that’s what he’s become.
A man isn’t meant to spend his wedding anniversary alone. He should be touring that great castle with her. He’d promised to take her there, and he’d put it off. That’s why she left, isn’t it? That sort of neglect. He’d fouled it all up, hadn’t he?
Back at the rooming house, the landlord whips open the door for him, as always, and nails him with a knowing look. “It’s that time of year, in’t it?”
Slipping off his hat, he glances around the dark parlor.
What would it be if he forgot she ever existed?
Forgot what it was to whip his brush across canvas with light strokes, capturing beauty that she brought alive in the world?
Color. Movement. The power of a single moment preserved in oils on canvas.
Perhaps some moments aren’t worth holding on to forever.
“You’ll feel better in the morn, luv,” she says, cuffing him gently on the arm. “Wedding anniversaries only come ’round once a year.”
Notes come due a lot more than that. Notes, debt, and needs—those are plentiful.
He looks out at the full moon while sipping his coffee.
He whips out a sketch pad, roughs in the shape of the moon against the backdrop of St. Michael’s Mount, shading in craters, and then he sweeps oil paint over it, giving it dimension.
Depth. He leans back, squints, and the work stands out against the page, and his chest widens with appreciation.
A strange peace steals over him as he looks at the rough art he’s produced.
He can force himself to create, and it is still beautiful.
He sleeps hard that night and wakes feeling better, as promised. He’ll be a sellout, painting mediocre art, but he’ll be surviving, paying his way with the art of his hand, which is precisely what his father promised he wouldn’t do.
After cleaning up, he tucks a couple of small canvases and an easel under his arm and grabs his tattered case of paints and brushes.
He’ll simply keep on as he has been and release the need for greatness.
He tasted it for a time, and perhaps simply proving his father wrong, supporting himself, is a form of success.
Until she returns, at least. He cannot help hoping.
Clambering down the rocky path, he stands on the pebble-covered beach and looks across the water.
Suddenly, he cannot breathe. There’s a stark whiteness against the rocks and cliffs, a softness standing against the hardness. Beautiful. Lovely and pure. Miraculous. Celestial. It’s an abandoned item of clothing, most likely. The holiday tourists are always leaving things behind.
But it stirs. Rises. She is slender and lovely with a cloud of long, dark hair falling to her waist, and she is looking directly at him across the sloping beach through her windswept hair.