They stayed for a long visit and a late luncheon. John took Graham down to his surgery for a tour of the place. With the men gone, Philippa asked Imogene how married life suited her and Imogene was frank in her response, and in her questions. They made plans for Imogene to come again and sorted out a visiting schedule that would work for Philippa.
As she looked around their lovely, sedate, home, Imogene pondered how different her life might have been had she come to live here without ever meeting Graham. She wondered if their paths would have eventually crossed, a mere ten miles of distance between them. Strange was fate. She could not see herself living here in this home with them, though. She loved her sister and John dearly, but she simply couldn’t see it now. Graham had changed everything. Now she could not imagine being anywhere that he was not. Her life was completely and utterly entwined with his.
IN the carriage on the way home they regarded each other from their seats opposite one another. They usually situated themselves in this way. It provided the best setting for looking at the other. From the day of their very first meeting, this was something they had always reverted to easily without even knowing what they were doing. Others had noticed and would remark upon this particular behaviour they exhibited for the rest of their lives.
Graham looked out the window at the rolling scenery and then back at his wife. Sometimes when Imogene did simple things, such as blowing him a kiss or whispering an I love you, he felt overcome with emotion. The effect was usually to silence him, rendering him unable to speak or to respond in a way that made any sense. So he just remained silent and smiled at her, and revelled in the radiant glow of her love that suffused him.
Imogene broke the quiet. “Thank you.”
“For taking you to see your sister? You do not have to thank me for that, chérie.”
“Not for that.”
“For what then?”
“For finding me. For loving me. I realized today that I would not have been happy living there with Philippa and John even as much as I love and adore them. So thank you. Thank you for giving me this beautiful, lovely life.”
For the second time that day, Graham closed his eyes and just let her words float over him for he knew he would not be able to speak a response.
FOURTEEN
He that would be a painter must have a natural turn thereto.
Love and delight therein are better teachers of
the Art of Painting than compulsion is.
Albrecht Dürer ~ Third Book of Human Proportions, 1512
IT had been easy, really. So easy. All he’d had to do was slip the drug to them by way of the maid, with whom he’d been dallying. Flattery was a skill he possessed in abundance, along with his charm and good looks. He knew how to use every advantage where he might gain the most benefit.
She slept in the carriage, appearing peaceful and completely unaware in her slumber. The years had worn well on her for she was still very pretty. He perceived the tightening in his loins, remembering her lush body from before, what he had forced her to do then. But he didn’t need to do that now. Generally, he liked his women willing, unless forcing them gave him an advantage. In this case, the advantage lay asleep in his lap, and would be ever so more effective in inducement.
SHE felt as if she were clawing her way out of a fog.
Opening her eyes, she saw a face she had hoped never to see again in her lifetime.
“Hello, Agnes. It’s such a pleasure to see you again.”
“No!” She cringed in fear until she realized that Clara was lying across his lap. “Clara. Give her to me. Please, I beg of you, give me my child,” she implored, reaching out her arms.
He gave a slight shake of his head. “No, dear, not yet. You have something that I need.”
“What do you want from me?” She tried to quell the bitter fear screaming to the surface.
“Just your signature, my dear.” He waved a document at her and she took it.
She scanned it hastily. “I cannot sign this. We’ll have nothing, no way to live!” she cried, looking at him in horror. “You can’t do this. He said I would never have to worry, that we would have his support for life.”
“Tut, tut, dear Agnes.” He shook his head at her. “We men are so…fickle. He simply cannot be bothered with you anymore. He has married. A lady of rank, a politician’s daughter. My dear, that’s changed everything.” Cocking his head, he lifted his chin. “Now you must see how any connection to you and your child would bring shame down on upon their noble name.” He paused. “Can’t have that, Agnes,” he whispered.
“I won’t sign.”
“Ah, yes you will. You will sign, Agnes. You will sign because you wouldn’t want anything to happen to the sweetling lying across my lap.” He moved his hand to gently stroke over Clara’s cheek before resting it against her neck.”
Agnes broke then, giving in to the despair. She knew what he was capable of, and that he would have no qualms carrying out any evil he might devise. After another moment of anguished misery she relented. “I’ll sign.”
He grinned repulsively, looking back down at her daughter. “She is such a beautiful child. You know, I believe she inherited the best of both of you in her looks. Your colouring and his noble features, and those eyes, so fine…and green.”
IMOGENE had so much to learn, but lucky for her, Graham was her enthusiastic guide. When the weather was dry they rode over the estate so she could learn its boundaries. When the weather was wet she explored the house and learned its secrets. It snowed one day and was a very pretty sight, but it didn’t last. By morning it was gone.
There were many people to meet and names to learn. One new acquaintance shadowed her everywhere; the dog, Zuly. The elegant creature had taken an immediate liking to Imogene, attaching herself to her new mistress with utmost loyalty. It was absolutely no trouble to quickly grow affectionate of her new four-legged friend.
They settled into the habits that suited them. For instance, Imogene preferred to take breakfast in their sitting room except for the weekends or if they were having guests. Graham rose earlier than she did and would be up and about, and then come back to breakfast with her when she arose. For now they slept in the master’s chamber and would continue to do so until Imogene’s rooms were done up. Her things were still kept in her room and she bathed and dressed there, she just did not sleep in there. This caused some concession in regards to Phelps, Graham’s manservant, but they worked it out. When Graham first woke in the early morning he saw to himself. Later, after breakfasting with Imogene, he would have Phelps attend him in his chamber for bathing and preparing for the day whilst Imogene had retreated to her chamber by that time, to be assisted by Hester.
Graham preferred to concentrate on estate business during the first half of the day. He often rode out with his steward, Mr. Duncan, attending to tenant issues and matters relating to crops and livestock. If not riding out, he conducted meetings in his study. Imogene used this morning time for her work as well. She met with Mrs. Griffin each day, and Cook, a few times each week. For now, she was busy learning the workings of the house and the names of the servants. By and by, she would have more decisions to make, and accounts to manage, but she wasn’t in a great rush to take charge of everything. She made plans to begin tenant visits; as the new mistress of Gavandon, it was now her duty. Mrs. Griffin would help her in the beginning, until all families were known to her. The housekeeper seemed sensible. Imogene liked her for being so approachable.
After luncheon, correspondence took priority for both of them as the post had arrived by that time, and responses usually required their attention. Imogene preferred working from the library. It was housed in one of the front towers, and thus was a round room. There were abundant windows, which afforded a most lovely view of the formal gardens and fountain out the front. Graham arranged for work spaces set up for both of them in the library and started joining her there for the purpose of writing his letters.
The later afternoo
n was for recreation. They might go for a ride or a walk if it was not raining. They both liked to read and had other interests to fill the time. Sometimes they played cards. Graham worked on his ancestry project and Imogene wrote in her journal regularly. He read the paper and she embroidered as a last resort if she had to stay inside. She knew that when spring arrived she’d definitely be spending more time outside.
Graham took her around the village at Whichford, introducing his new bride to the inhabitants there. Whichford was situated only three miles from Gavandon, having been a market town since medieval times, dealing in the wool trade for centuries. The entire village was built of red brick and very picturesque. They attended church there and Imogene found the parishioners to be welcoming and friendly. There had been instances of awkwardness with some persons exclaiming on the likeness between her and the previous Lady Rothvale, but it was soon forgotten. A few had paid courtesy calls on them, eager to become acquainted with the new mistress of Gavandon. Imogene sorted through the invitations that arrived for them, and Graham helped her with the responses.
There was one surprise when Graham showed her the fencing studio that he had created in a lower room, below ground. It had beautiful wooden floors, and because of its basement location, he explained how it was kept cool in summer and warm in winter. The windows were set along the ceiling, which opened out at ground level, at the base of the house. They afforded light and fresh air aplenty. Imogene was impressed by how well apportioned it was. Racks of equipment; foils, sabers, masks, gloves, padded jackets; everything was all organized and arranged along the walls. She looked forward to watching him and wondered at his reaction should she ask him to teach her to fence. She didn’t ask him, but the idea was definitely kindled when she was shown that beautiful fencing room.
SHE did not recognize the man on the path. As she approached the house, he appeared to be leaving it. He carried some fine linens in his arms; shawls, runners, throws, a rug, were all draped over his arm. As they drew near to one another he slowed, stopping on the path, smiling at her, slowly dipping his head in a bow. “Finally we meet in the flesh.”
Imogene was surprised by the familiarity of his words. “I beg your pardon?”
“I said, finally we meet in the flesh.”
“I heard what you said, sir, but have we met in any other fashion?”
“Officially no, but I certainly feel as if I‘ve known you for quite a while now.”
Imogene took in his appearance; his stained hands, the linens draped over his arm, his Bohemian appearance. She knew who this man was. “Mr. Mallerton I presume?”
“Graham said you were very quick. Guilty as charged, Lady Rothvale. It is an honor to meet the lady who has captured his heart so absolutely.” He bowed again, this time with more of a gallant flourish.
Imogene suppressed a giggle. This man was most unconventional, and irreverent, and utterly charming. She liked him. “Thank you, Mr. Mallerton. ’Tis a pleasure. I imagine we’ll be seeing quite a lot of each other.”
“Yes, well, that could be an understatement. I’ve just come from him you see, and he has quite a lot of portraits planned for you, milady. I hope we don’t get sick of each other,” he replied archly.
“Ah, time will tell, Mr. Mallerton. Time will tell on that score, won’t it?”
“I would like to start tomorrow and set up a schedule of sittings for the first portrait. Tomorrow at one o'clock? Will that suit you?”
“It will. Where do I find you?”
“Graham will show you the way the first time. I paint out of my home studio for indoor portraits. Outdoor portraits require the outside, obviously, and he does have a suggestion for one of those as well. So, tomorrow then, Lady Rothvale?” He tipped his head at her once again and then moved to pass and be on his way.
Imogene watched him go. Tristan Mallerton was tall, over six feet without his boots. He had dark, unruly hair and was quite thin. His face was handsome in a tortured sort of way. He wore a grimace-like expression as if he were concentrating very hard on something. He was interesting, different, and she knew without a shadow of a doubt, that she had just met someone significant.
“I met your friend today, Mr. Mallerton,” Imogene announced over dinner.
“I know.”
Imogene looked at her husband inquisitively. “How? And why didn’t you say?”
“I saw you meet him through the library windows and I didn’t say anything because I wanted you to make your own assessment of him. I thought that if I introduced you, if I were present, you might feel obligated to like him more than you want to. I don’t wish to force him on you, but what was your impression? It’s been killing me not to ask.”
Imogene chose her words carefully. “He is unconventional, I give you that, but he remained a gentleman in my presence. His comments to me were a bit irreverent, but not insulting. I found him charming and amusing in a slightly demented kind of way. I take it that you trust him completely? He is not some monster who will terrorize me?”
“Absolutely not a monster. He holds my complete trust. You relieve me, Imogene. He is gifted, and I know he will paint you beautifully, creating the kind of portrait I wish to have. All gifted persons, no matter their talent, seem to have that touch of creative madness in them, as does he. Not everyone can stomach him, and I would hate for you to dread his company, as you would have to spend a great deal of time in it. Are you willing to give it a go, chérie?”
“Yes,” she said firmly. “He wishes me to come to his studio tomorrow at one o’clock. He said something about setting a schedule for the sittings.”
“The first meeting will be about arrangement and the setting. You will discuss what is envisioned for the portrait, and he’ll organize everything and explain what he needs from you.”
“You will not come? I am to go on my own?” she inquired anxiously.
Graham looked at her lovingly before placing his hand over hers and clasping it. “I must be away tomorrow,” he said softly. “Mr. Duncan and I must go to the eastern portion of the estate and I won’t be back in time to take you. Ben will drive you, and await you. When the weather is fair you could even walk there if you are up to it. And take the dog along for company if you wish.”
Imogene felt unsure as she absorbed his words.
“Oh, chérie, I love you so much.” He caressed her hand on the table. “It is for the best this way. Many do not understand the creative process. No artist could do his best work with others peering over his shoulders and distracting with questions or guarding the sitter. I trust him utterly. He is a professional. His task is to paint your image, and he will best accomplish it if he is allowed to work in private with just you and him together—artist and subject. You have nothing to fear from him. All proprieties and discretion as to modesty will be observed.”
Graham squeezed her hand and nodded his head, seeking to reassure her.
“All right. I understand then. I will be fine,” she said.
“You are so valiant, remember? I adore that about you.” He searched her face as if he was looking for any sign of fear or anxiety. “It will be glorious, and I can hardly wait until it is done.”
Dinner continued quietly for a time before Imogene recognized the sweet bread. “Is this the bread we had at the inn? Wasn’t it Mr. Jacobson’s?”
“I believe it is the same recipe,” he responded elusively.
“You got the recipe for us then, and gave it to Cook?”
“Not exactly. I am sure he got the recipe initially from his mother, Mrs. Jacobson.”
Imogene was puzzled, but just for an instant before realization dawned on her. “Cook! Mrs. Jacobson is our cook and she is his mother?” Imogene just stared at him and shook her head. “You keep an inordinate amount of secrets, my husband. You delight in teasing me with these things. I daresay I shall not have even the slightest twinge of guilt about any secret I may ever contrive to keep against you, current or otherwise. You are very naughty!”
He charmed her with a humble smile. “I await my punishment with valor and leave it in your most capable hands, chérie.”
“Humph,” she sniffed. “How does Mr. Jacobson have an inn such as The Lion’s Crown? He is young in years to be proprietor.”
“My father was fond of his comforts. He liked a good meal, and he hated the fare served at coaching inns along the road. He went back and forth to Town so often for Parliamentary votes that he quickly grew impatient with the poor meals and unclean beds. So he acquired The Lion’s Crown, and figured if he owned it, the standard of service would be assured.”
Imogene was surprised. “You own that inn?”
“We do, yes, chérie, and it is the only place our family has ever used since. It is exactly midway between Gavandon and London. Jacobson is a good man. He grew up here and found cooking to be his talent. Father was happy to set him there as proprietor, and it was a good choice too, for he has run the place profitably for about seven years now. Word of The Lion’s quality and excellence has spread, proving it to be a successful venture.”
“Truly amazing is all I have to say about that,” she said in wonder.
IMOGENE and Zuly stood at the door of the stone house after having lifted the knocker. She was surprised to have the door opened by Ben’s mother, Antonia. “Lady Rothvale. He awaits you in the studio. Follow me?”
“Is this your place of work, Antonia?”