5. “But Thou Art Immortal And Dost Never Fade, But Bloomest For Ever In Renewed Youth.”
“BUT THOU ART IMMORTAL AND DOST NEVER FADE, BUT BLOOMEST FOR EVER IN RENEWED YOUTH.”
(AESOP’S FABLES: THE ROSE AND THE AMARANTH)
Men in blue jackets on steeds of bravery galloped over the battlefield with expressions of courage, stoicism, thrill, terror and determination. Their captain rode a gelding of dun, his face thin and haggard.
Miles’ face.
And was that Lieutenant Jones on the grey horse? He certainly had the same beard.
How the devil did The Witness do it?
Earlier, finding himself at a loose end until meeting with the dragoon’s clerk on the morrow, Miles had ordered the closed plain carriage for discretion and paid a visit to the art gallery on Bond Street where the regiment’s colonel had purchased his two paintings.
The owner was indeed exhibiting several war canvases, including another by this damn artist fellow.
Miles had thought to question the owner but ’twas a fruitless endeavour as he’d never met The Witness, instead receiving the works from a famed art patron, the Duke of Rothwell.
Making a note to obtain an introduction to the formidable aristocrat, Miles had then been persuaded by the owner’s gammon and prattle to purchase the painting.
It had set him back a fair sum but he had to admit it was…powerful.
Propped on a low cabinet against the panelled wall, Miles viewed it from the comfortable leather chair of his study. Dusk had deepened the room to a subdued half-light and he regarded it in silence, one hand wrapped about a glass of whisky.
Most artists sought to show the glory and victory of battle, but this fellow wished to convey more – the sucking mud clutching at the horses’ legs, the confusion from the smoke of muskets and the horror of riding over dead men.
Miles had thought a close inspection of the scene might give him some clue as to who the artist was, and although a distant notion tantalised his cockloft, it was too vague to bring forth.
A knock. “Yer wanted me, Captain.”
Miles glanced over to Lynch hovering at the door. “Hmm. Have a look at this painting and tell me what you think.”
Lynch squinted. “Dark as debtor’s prison in here, hold on…
” He grabbed a splint, waggled it in a wall sconce and then lit the candelabra before approaching the canvas.
“Yer a mite bit reedy-looking, C’tain, but it’s yer mug, right enough.
And dip me in aspic but ain’t that Lieutenant Jones? Battle of Orthez?”
“My thoughts exactly. Look at the date it’s signed.”
“1815. A year after.” He twisted, nose scrunched.
“I go around in bloody circles, Lynch. At first, I believed the artist must be from the regiment because of the accuracy of detail, but surely we would have noticed a soldier daubing away in his spare time.” He scowled. “And do you even remember anyone who could paint? Jones himself, perhaps?”
“Couldn’t paint a wall, Captain. And yer not wrong, no one could’ve done this whilst still in the dragoons. Paper were hard enough to come by, let alone canvas. Sketches maybe.”
Miles slowly exhaled. “Have a think, then, of anyone who was sent home early, after Orthez but before 1815. Injured men and so forth.”
“I’ll shove m’thinking cap on.” And with a salute, his factotum stepped smartly from the study.
Miles brought the whisky to his lips but grimaced as the stitches pulled in his arm.
Now lit by the candelabra, the artist’s skill was highlighted evermore – the sheen of sunlight upon the sabres, the sparking of cannon fire and, in juxtaposition, the peaceful sloping hills of France in the background, verdant and everlasting.
Verity slipped into his thoughts.
As a callow youth, he’d called her his Amaranth, an ancient mythological flower that never faded, changed or died. Everlasting.
Snorting, he flung his head back on the cushioned leather of a chair that shouldn’t even be his but for his brother’s misfortune and contemplated their encounter.
If he was to be truthful to himself, he had not felt…naught.
Instead a faint taste of something lost had endured, like drinking water from a glass that had previously held whisky.
A sadness for a life once dreamed of. A youth’s desire to travel, to discover new plants, to make love on the sands, Verity’s hair trailing over his chest.
Hell, they’d oft kissed in the orchard until his blood had surged, a tide that had known no shore, her satin skin pulling him under like a treacherous current, her sighs impelling his youthful lust and…
He shifted in the chair and wondered why she’d never wed after also jilting that poor sod Locksley for his bad teeth. And breath. Despite his large botanical garden.
Indeed, had she–
“For shame,” came a drawl from someone who’d not thought to knock, “no man should drink alone.” A slender figure then proceeded to the decanters, selected the finest and most costly smuggled Glenlivet and poured a bumper of a glass.
Miles just watched his cousin, Mr Alasdair Firth, and wondered if he was trying to kill him.
But then to inherit the earldom, his cousin would also have to remove his own brother. Which wasn’t so beyond the realms of possibility as the elder Jeremy Firth could be a fribble but even so…
“How are you, Dair?” His cousin had been calling in more of late for no actual reason that Miles could discern, and although he’d told him of the curious paintings, he’d stopped short of the recent mishaps.
Dair carelessly shrugged off his bottle-blue jacket, which must have cost a pretty penny, rambled the study and then paused to peruse the new canvas.
“You’re too thin in this one.” He spun. “As for me… Won sixty guineas at faro. Beat Langton at fencing. And received an invitation no man could refuse from Lady Golbrook at Vauxhall. Not a bad week all in all.”
“Do you not wish for more from life?”
His cousin’s brow rose before it fell back into his habitual impassive facade. “What more is there? I have the essentials: Byron’s former chambers at Albany, a shared valet for the basics, and the stock of claret you gifted me for Christmas. I’m also at no one’s beck and call.”
“Unlike your elder brother with Aunt Mildred.”
“Poor wretch. Mother is in high dudgeon, by the by. Says she and Jeremy require a more substantial monthly stipend.”
“It’s substantial as it is.” Aunt Mildred had been left in such debt by her deceased husband having invested in a venture to export tea to India that she and Jeremy were now supported by the Stonewold coffers.
“Not substantial enough for her.”
“You never ask for anything, Dair.”
“I make my own way,” he said with a tip of glass.
Miles tipped his own. His cousin was slender but with a wiry strength that his skill for fencing had granted. Blond hair and ice-blue eyes caused many a lady to sigh, while his taciturn manner caused them to swoon.
But a restlessness forever gripped Dair and he meandered the study once more, seizing quills, checking ink pots and perusing the book upon the desk. He flicked a page and crumpled his lips up. “Why do you like all this…botany stuff?”
Oddly enough, no one had ever asked Miles that so he debated his answer.
“From an early age, it fascinated me. The potential for such life within a minuscule seed. The conditions required for it to germinate. The blooming of such life. Not to speak of how new discoveries could help mankind. Just look at willow bark.” He polished off his whisky.
“On campaign, it also became a comfort, the never-ending cycle of hope and life when all around me so much was being lost.”
Dair nodded. “A worthy endeavour then.” He straightened a clock on the mantelpiece before turning to sift through the plethora of invitations on the silver salver.
He rocked on his heels. “Ah, the Thurstons’ ball is on Wednesday.
There are a few families still in Town so you’d better attend and endear yourself to the debutantes left on the shelf at the end of the Season. ”
With a frown, Miles propped his feet on the desk. His cousin had the right of it but grandiose ballrooms had never been Miles’ chosen habitat: he detested chitchat on the weather, abhorred the endless bowing and loathed dancing slippers. He belonged in boots. “Keen to marry me off?”
“It’s your responsibility as an aristocrat to marry a deep-pocketed debutante.
Your brother Cameron kept putting it off and look what happened.
” Dair laid the Thurstons’ invite to one side and proceeded to wade through the others.
“Though you weathered all those years on campaign with barely a scratch so you’re doubtless made of iron.
And talking of deep-pocketed debutantes…
” He now wafted an engraved cream invitation.
“This is from the charming Mrs Tait. I met her a few weeks ago. A most pretty bundle of a widow.”
Miles scowled. “I’m tendering my regrets to that invitation.” And he wasn’t about to tell Alasdair it was due to the neighbours.
“What! If you’re hunting a wife, this is the perfect event.
Mrs Tait always has the cream of the crop, including her own daughter.
Six thousand a year and pretty as a peach.
Not so much on the shelf at the end of the Season as holding it up.
” Dair scanned the invitation. “Ah, a guest list too. Kane’s daughter is attending – her dowry is a stud farm and five a year.
Lord Ludford. Lady Sefton – she’s a widow at twenty-four if you’re not keen on blushing virgins, and…
bloody hell.” He pursed his lips. “How did she get the Scandalous Scarlet Spinsters to attend?”
“Who?”
“The Misses Seymour, Nash and Hamilton. Sounds like a firm of fusty lawyers but is in fact a trio of spinsters, so not far off.”
“Verity Seymour?”
Alasdair narrowed his gaze. “You know her?”
“A long time ago. Why do you call them that?”
“It’ll cost you a bottle of this fine Glenlivet.”
Damn extortion. And from one’s own relative. “Done.”
“Miss Seymour came to London and took up residence at her father’s townhouse some…
” Dair flung himself on the settee, threw one arm along the back and squinted at the ceiling plasterwork.
“Five or so years ago, along with an eccentric aunt. Then she acquired a ruined female cousin along the way, hence the Scarlet Spinsters sobriquet, though I’m pretty sure it was only the cousin who was ruined but you know what the rags are like. ”
“Where did you meet Miss Seymour?”
“Meet?” His head rose. “I haven’t met her.
How can one? The spinsters never venture to routs, balls, dinners or parties.
Hence my surprise at their attendance. My knowledge of Miss Seymour is pure hearsay and gossip.
I do know she drives a green phaeton and paints cats.
According to the Herald, she also promenades St James’s Park with her passel of relatives but far too early in the morn for me to be about. Unless I’m returning home.”
Miles shook his head. “Any talk of a past fiancé? With a botanical garden?”
“Why do you ask?” Alasdair blinked. “I say, she’s not the one that…” He let out a low whistle. “Well, I never.”
Miles grimaced and wished that when he’d first arrived in London, he’d not allowed Alasdair to take him to dinner.
Then Watier’s. Then Boodles. Then some ale-house in Cheapside where he’d talked…
overmuch. “Miss Seymour was the fickle girl from that summer in my youth,” he merely stated with a nonchalant nod.
Dair cast a sly smile. “Then you must certainly attend. For other prospects are never in shortage.” But his smile faltered.
It had been meant in camaraderie but Miles had learned to read men well in the army and Dair’s own words had upset him in some way.
Nevertheless, Miles would prefer to eat his own liver than attend a dinner at which Verity Seymour was present. “No. For as you know, I’m also incapable of doing the pretty at such affairs. My manners are too blunted.”
Dair rolled his eyes and smirked into his whisky. “Oh, come now, there must be something you can prattle about. Literature, perhaps?”
“At the colonel’s dinner, his wife, a charming lady, asked me what I thought of Byron’s poems. I was like a soldier sent into battle without a sword.”
“Well, just act the brooding war hero then – shouldn’t be too difficult. Ladies will love it.” Dair smirked. Again. “Just give them the odd tale of heroism to induce batted lashes. Though spare us the nitty-gritty of wounds and blood, especially if you’re bride-hunting.”
Miles grunted. “Surely I can recruit a bride with less faff.”
“Recruit?” Dair huffed a breath. “With such romance, you’ll hardly be fighting them off. Attend, Cousin. Sounds like you need the practice.”
Miles crossed his arms and returned his own sly smile. “If you attend also as my guest.”
“Damnation, no! The gentlemen likely owe me coin, and I’m not hunting a bride. Ever.”
“That’s settled then. Neither of us go.”
“No, it isn’t. As the new earl you need to beard the lion’s den and enter society. Mrs Tait’s dinners are perfect. And don’t I recall you wishing to meet Lord Ludford? He has some…blue things that you want.”
“The tender agapanthus you mean. His father collected them.”
“Well then, you could bend his ear and woo the hostess’ daughter at the same time. Snaffle two birds in one dinner – a cock and a pigeon.”
Not sure which was which, Miles pointed a finger. “Not unless you attend also. All I’ve done for years is bark commands, commiserate about foot rot and propose battle lines, so if I’m to hunt a bride then you can bloody well help.”
“What do you want me to do?” Dair scowled. “Have first helpings?”
Miles held his cousin’s scowl, did not blink and rapped his fingers on the chair arm.
“Oh, very well then. It will give me a chance to meet the Scandalous Scarlet Spinsters. Including your Miss Seymour.” Dair winked, then glared at his empty glass. “I’d best be off. Unless you wish to accompany me to a gaming hell over the river? Has bad women, bad booze and bad players.”
“Not for me. I’m cataloguing the pressed plants I collected when our regiment was in Salamanca.”
With a roll of eye, Dair donned his jacket. “Can’t compete with that. I’ll see myself out. Until Mrs Tait’s dinner then.”
Miles waved a hand. He required an early night anyway as tomorrow he was also to convene with the dragoon’s clerk, attend a three-hour meeting with his man of affairs about business ventures, interview four stewards for the estate, be measured for a new pair of boots and then take some frustration out at Hawkins’ Boxing Club.
He returned his eyes to the painting.
Lynch and Dair were correct: The Witness had made him too thin again.