Chapter Eleven
‘And no one knows who he is?’ Calliope asked in wonder.
Her aunt’s exact expression was hidden by her parasol, but her tone was absolutely not in question.
‘No! No one has ever met Mr Glenarm, yet his art is highly sought after whenever a piece comes up for auction—and there are not many. Some have wondered if he is living here in Brighton, as so many of his landscapes feature local landmarks. Is it not thrilling?’
It was rather intriguing, Calliope had to admit as she and her aunt wandered slowly down the promenade along the beach.
The heat of the day had made staying indoors insufferable, but she was starting to wonder if it was not equally unbearable outside.
The presumed ocean breeze was not yet forthcoming.
Still, their conversation more than made up for the stifling heat. ‘It is most strange, to think of an artist secretly painting, not wishing his true identity to be connected to his art.’
Her Aunt Louise nodded sagely—or at least, her parasol did. ‘And the paintings go for higher and higher amounts, in part I believe because no one is sure when there will be a next Glenarm piece available…or if there ever will be. For all we know, Mr Glenarm is elderly and will not paint for ever.’
Calliope nodded, though the idea of not painting even into her own old age was a most unpleasant thought. ‘Yes, I suppose so. Such a strange decision, to keep his identity a secret.’
She certainly would not do such a thing. Why, fame was not the only reason she painted—fortune would also be most welcome—but Calliope could not deny it was a large factor.
To be remembered by the world, to be seen by it, to be recognised and valued. It was beyond her wildest dreams, so unlike her real life she ached for it.
Ditty looked after Thalia and their mother gallivanted here there and everywhere but Calliope? Calliope would be a famous artist one day.
An artist that all the world would speak of.
Curiosity welled within her. ‘But who is this Glenarm? Why does he not—’
‘Well met Mrs Gower, Miss Oliver!’ The dulcet tones of Montague rang out across the beach, causing more than a few heads to turn. ‘And how are you enjoying this fine day?’
It was with a strange mixture of delight and dread that Calliope turned to see Montague walking towards her.
Delight, for it had been delightful indeed to dance with the man just the previous evening. Delightful to receive his smiles. Delightful to feel his touch against her skin, warming her even through layers of silk.
Dread, for it had been dreadful to stand there in his arms and lose all sense of who she was. Dreadful to hear the whispers, to see the gawping of other dancers and their audience.
‘Ah, my lord,’ called out her aunt, seemingly untroubled by the gentleman’s presence. ‘Is it not baking? I don’t know when this heat will break, I cannot wait for—oh. You have a companion, I see.’
Companion?
Calliope’s gaze darted to both the left and right of the approaching figure and saw no young lady hanging on his arm…but then her attention dropped about three feet and her stomach lurched.
A boy. A young boy, perhaps not even ten years old.
He was dressed in genteel finery and had a smudge of dirt on his nose that seemingly Montague had not noticed.
He was holding Montague’s hand tightly, as though a wave could suddenly traverse the long beach and scoop him up, pulling him inexorably into the ocean.
My cousin had a son.
Ah. A son. The new Earl of Trefusis, presumably. His mother must be grieving.
His mother died bringing him to life. He is in my townhouse this very moment. In Brighton.
‘You must be John,’ Calliope said brightly, lowering herself onto her haunches as the child and Montague came to a halt before them. ‘I have heard you are staying with your…erm…’
Botheration. If the child was the son of Montague’s cousin, that would make him—
‘My uncle,’ said the boy shyly, glancing up with eyes of hero worship at the tall gentleman whose hand he was holding.
Calliope tried not to smile as she glanced up at Montague.
Montague cleared his throat. ‘Yes. Uncle. Very pleasant to see you, Mrs Gower.’
‘And I you, my lord, and very pleasant to make your acquaintance, Master John.’
‘Actually,’ said the boy with a nervous smile, ‘I’m the Earl of Trefusis. But you can call me John.’
‘I would like that,’ Calliope’s aunt said seriously. ‘Would you do me the honour of escorting me along the promenade?’
The child’s quick glance up at Montague once again was not missed by Calliope, whose heart ached.
If what Montague had suffered as a young thing was half what this boy had endured, then he was certainly better off as Montague’s ward…
but that did not mean wounds would swiftly heal and harsh memories would soon be forgotten.
The scars would last and, though they would fade, they would never completely disappear.
The nervousness in the boy’s expression told her that in an instant and Calliope was not surprised to hear Montague’s voice speak gruffly, but with kindness.
‘Go on with you, Mrs Gower is a lovely woman. I’ll be right behind you,’ Montague added, clearly seeing the uncertainty in John’s eyes. ‘Go on. You’re quite safe.’
Calliope’s heart twisted painfully as she straightened up and watched the child slowly, finger by finger, let go of Montague’s hand—before grasping her aunt’s hand quickly, as though jumping from one stepping stone to another.
Her Aunt Louise beamed. ‘Well, what an honour it is for me, walking with such a fine young gentleman! Tell me, John, I can see three seagulls. How many can you see?’
The child immediately looked about him, eyes wide, as the pair started to walk along the promenade. ‘I can see…five! Five seagulls!’
‘My, that is impressive,’ said Calliope’s aunt fondly. ‘And what about seashells. Can you see any seashells? Shall we wander off the path and have a look?’
‘I can see—there’s one there! And one here, look, it’s all covered in seaweed…’
Calliope smiled as she watched her aunt seamlessly draw the young boy out of himself. She should not have been surprised.
‘Your aunt is a marvel.’
Somehow she was not surprised that Montague was standing so close to her, but his low voice, clearly intended only for her, was sufficiently intimate to make prickles dance down her spine.
‘She is,’ Calliope said softly. ‘She was always so wonderful with us girls. Myself and my sisters. It is a shame, really.’
‘A shame?’ Montague stepped forward so they stood side by side, watching the older woman and the little boy dart closer to the wave and then dance back as the tide came in, their laughter mingled on the air with the screech of the seagulls.
‘That she had none of her own. My Uncle Rupert and her… They were never blessed with children.’
Only now did Calliope realise just what a painful time that must have been for her aunt. To see her own sister produce three children in the space of five years, and to wait and wait and wait for a child of your own. A child who did not come.
‘And your John is very charming,’ Calliope added with a smile as she glanced up at Montague. ‘I can see the family resemblance.’
Montague snorted. ‘He’s a quiet boy.’
‘He probably has a great deal to think about,’ she returned lightly. ‘Given…well. Everything.’
‘I suppose so. I will admit, I have never felt so free, so light of those kinds of concerns in many years. Thanks to you,’ the gentleman beside her said softly. ‘Thanks to our talk on the bench. Thank you.’
It was most irritating indeed, Calliope thought as she stood in the baking sun, to be so utterly at sea with this man.
Sometimes he was brash, loud, aggressive in his teasing and clearly delighting in her discomfort.
Sometimes he was quiet, introspective, aware of his own challenges and eager to know her own.
Could the man not stick to one way of being for five minutes together? Why did he have to do this to her? This charming, inexplicably endearing habit of teasing her beyond her endurance and then opening himself to her, showing her there was far more to him than she could possibly imagine?
‘It…it was my pleasure,’ she managed to say.
‘No, you—you do not understand,’ said Montague quickly, and he turned, his words growing rapid, as though he had to try to explain something vital to her. ‘Calliope, I have never—no one has ever—when I am with you—’
‘I admit, my dear, I’m quite exhausted—and I think my champion seagull spotting friend here could do with a nap in all this heat,’ Aunt Louise said with a smile, her hand patting the head of the small boy beside her.
John grinned upwards at them with bright eyes. ‘I saw a fish!’
‘He did indeed, but he will overtire soon,’ said Calliope’s aunt in a low whisper. ‘With your permission, my lord, I will escort—I mean, Master John will escort me to his house for some refreshment.’
Calliope tried not to smile as the young boy puffed out his chest.
‘I can do that! Can I do that, Uncle Laidley?’
Uncle Laidley, then…not Montague? Interesting.
Wait a minute. If her aunt left with John, that would leave her alone with—
‘Aunt Louise,’ Calliope began hastily.
‘Capital idea!’ said Montague cheerfully. ‘I will escort Miss Oliver back to your residence, Mrs Gower, and ensure she takes a nap too.’
Calliope choked.
‘I mean—that she drinks a cool lemonade and rests,’ Montague added, his own cheeks actually pinking. When had she ever noticed that happen? ‘You can rely on me, Mrs Gower.’
‘Yes. I know I can,’ said Calliope’s aunt only slightly tartly. ‘Well, good afternoon, my lord.’
As Montague bowed, Calliope made sure to curtsey low to the child. ‘Lord Trefusis.’
Quite as she had expected, when she straightened it was to see the boy almost glowing with pride—though that could have been the sun.