Chapter 4 #2
He lifted the brandy to his lips and downed it in one.
The burn was clarifying. And cauterizing.
Lord. He would never give Freddie the satisfaction of a confession, but indeed, he had just lost himself standing in the dark and gawking at Miss Arden.
Yet every memory of her that remained from childhood was vexing.
She was a whirlwind of stentorian opinions and instructions, proposing increasingly demented schemes for who would play what sort of pirate in the forest, perching on any available rock to perform monologues with her grass-stained chin pointed to the heavens.
It occurred to Alasdair that he had been away most of his life and that Freddie, with his penchant for seduction, might know Violet Arden better than most. He didn’t like the shiver of disgust that ran through him at the thought.
“One of your conquests?” he asked, hoisting a brow.
“Her?” Freddie nearly dropped the painting. “God, no. She would eat me alive.”
Alasdair glanced back at the self-portrait of Violet. Now she appeared to be smirking at him. “Enjoy that while you can,” he said, nodding toward the painting in Freddie’s hands. “It goes back to Pressmore tomorrow.”
“Can’t I keep it?” he whined. “It’s very good.”
“It is very good, and no, you can’t have it.”
The dinner bell chimed, summoning them. To dine at Sampson was to chew and swallow beneath the weight of a hundred painted eyes.
Since the day he was finished at Cambridge, Alasdair had been dispatched to hunt down and acquire art for his mother.
The fruits of that effort, as many as could fit on the walls, now stared back at him.
Lady Edith had a particular affinity for chubby, cheerful depictions of Jesus as an infant, and St. Paul painted in his signature crimson cloak.
With a single chandelier suspended above the table and the candles in their holders burning low, one was left with the mere suggestion of these figures clustered along the walls, and the foreboding sense of being watched by eyes hidden in shadow.
Danforth spoke through most of the meal and glowered when Alasdair requested wine.
And though Alasdair sat at the position of privilege as the man of the house, Danforth was unmistakably the preferred authority.
Eating but not tasting his roasted pheasant, Alasdair leaned back and observed his mother hanging on the clergyman’s every word.
It was clear to anyone with the eyes to notice, painted or otherwise, that he had been replaced.
Freddie fidgeted and moved his vegetables around his plate listlessly like a naughty child.
“To be sure, Bishop Jewel’s homilies are not of a style fashionable for today’s parishioners,” Danforth was saying.
He had been lecturing about The Books of Homilies since the soup course, ecstatic sounds of agreement floating up from Lady Edith at all the correct places.
I’ve been away too long. Alasdair could imagine this exact same exchange playing out again and again, so practiced was the air.
“I myself have championed the keeping of certain traditions, but we must also enliven the known sermons where appropriate, to excite even the most skeptical listener…”
At the other end of the table, across a field of candelabras, dishes, and plates, Lady Edith watched Danforth with a zeal that defied her seemingly weak constitution.
“The man I’ve hired for the build should arrive tomorrow or the day after, along with a shipment of furnishings from our warehouse in London,” Alasdair declared.
Lady Edith stared as if shocked to hear him speak.
“The original plans for Clafton were lost in the blaze, but I’ve discovered a number of prints from a local artist that will aid him immensely in the re-creation.
Assessments of the remaining walls will be completed within a fortnight. ”
“O-oh,” Lady Edith murmured. “That reminds me, Mr. Danforth and I wanted to suggest some changes to the east wing. He will need a permanent chamber there.”
“And I have drawn up a design for an enviable little chapel to be added to the grounds,” said Danforth with a broad smile. “To be sure, my artistic skills are modest, but I think the general shape and size is well communicated.”
“To be sure,” Freddie mocked in a singsong voice.
“I have no intention of changing a thing about Clafton,” Alasdair replied.
Lady Edith and Mr. Danforth exchanged an uneasy look.
“Perhaps because of your many absences, Alasdair, you are unaware of your mother’s changing desires,” the clergyman told him.
“My many absences were at the behest of the lady you claim to speak for. And you will please address me as Mr. Kerr.” He stood, wiped his mouth, then dropped his napkin. “There will be no changes to Clafton. Regrettably, I’ve lost my appetite. Good evening.”
He didn’t bother listening to Danforth’s stammering apologies. As he returned to his rooms, Freddie chased after him.
“You can’t leave me alone with them,” Freddie cried. “It’s too dreadful.”
“Go to bed,” he commanded, wishing to do the same.
“Why? So you can be alone with your pretty little painting?”
Yes.
“Damn you, so that I might enjoy some peace and quiet.”
Freddie trailed after him for a while, then lost interest and fell behind.
In fact, Alasdair did want to be alone with Miss Arden’s self-portrait.
There was far more to understand of it. He’d hoped that upon returning to his room and upon returning to the painting, it would have lost some of its bewitching magic.
Alas. If anything, it had only grown in power.
When the valet was summoned to undress him and he was naked before the painting, he felt the urge to stand very tall and straight, then scolded himself silently.
Violet Arden would never behold him this way, nor would he ever see beneath the thin muslin of her gown, however much the idea increasingly intrigued him. It was just a bit of paint and pencil, it ought to hold no sway over him.
And yet.
Exhausted, Alasdair climbed into bed, finding that even with all the lamps extinguished, Violet’s eyes found his in the dark. It would be painful to part with it, he thought, so perhaps the answer was simply not to.
He woke early, pulled from a dream of gray storms to discover someone creeping into his bedroom. Roaring out from beneath the blankets, he accosted the intruder in his nightshirt. Freddie.
“Mercy! Mercy!” his brother shrieked, caught by the collar of his jacket and jerked down to his knees. Alasdair breathed hard, looming over him. “I just wanted Emilia! I had a mind to return it to her, you know, an excuse to call! And…and…”
“And?” Alasdair shook him. “Out with it.”
Freddie squeezed his eyes shut, going limp as an old rag in Alasdair’s grasp. “And to make my intentions known. That I love her. That I mean to marry her.”
With one powerful yank of his arm, Alasdair dragged his brother to his feet, then glared down into his eyes. “With what money?”
“Why, she has more than enough!”
“Indeed.” He clamped his hand around the base of Freddie’s neck, pinching. “And what does the lady’s father have to say about all of this?”
“Colonel Graddock is a-abroad,” Freddie whispered. “How should I know?”
“Fortunately, I’m here to speak sense for the both of us. You’ve no income of your own, no employment, nothing besides your eagerness and charm, and you’re mad if you think that is enough to recommend you for marriage.”
“Not mad, no, just in love. Can’t you understand that?” He let Freddie go and his brother spun away, his eyes filling with tears. “In all your wanderings, were you never sick with love?”
No. Yes. I don’t know.
Freddie charged on, his voice rising with every word.
“Did you not write to me of a Georgiana or some such? And do you think our mother would approve of her? An Austrian, if memory serves, your lady, yes? And that would never do! Never! Miss Graddock is half-English, her mother from the Indies, and you should have heard the way our mother and Danforth spoke of it!”
His brother could go on and on, but it did not matter; Alasdair was beyond reach.
He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes with the heel of his right hand and sighed.
There was nothing for it. Freddie would continue on this impossible path until it was swept out from under him or he lost his feet entirely.
It would be admirable, his determination, if it weren’t exasperating.
“Take the painting of your so-called lady love and wait for me to dress. Then, we depart for Pressmore—this foolishness ends today.”