A Fresh Perspective, A Regency Romance (20 page)

“Bravo, Reed,” she gasped, her amusement controlled before he could escape. “I had begun to believe you were too much your father’s son ever to recognize the girl’s. . .”

He whirled. “The girl’s what, mother? I warn you it had best not be a word against her. Not one word, as she may soon be your daughter-in-law.”

She fell silent a moment, studying him. “I never intended to speak ill of her, Reed. I rather like Megan Breech. It was the girl’s infatuation for you I wondered if you had at last recognized.”

“Infatuation with me?” He was confused.

“Yes,” she laughed again, but unaccountably, her laughter turned to tears. “Has been for years, poor girl, and you completely oblivious to it.”

Reed made offer of his handkerchief. She waved him away. “I had begun to fear you were too much like your father to notice the depths of her adoration.”

“How did you know?”

“One has but to look at her. It is writ plain on her face. Whenever you step into the room she lights up like a candle. The wonder is you did not recognize it sooner. Tell me, was it out of some sort of misguided affection for Megan that you had that dreadful bronze made? The satyr with her face on it?”

That stopped him cold. “You have seen the bronze?”

“Yes. So has Lady Burnham, more’s the pity.” She was laughing again, something wild in the sound.

“Lady Burnham? How in God’s name has she seen the satyr?”

“Dreadful woman! She came to commiserate with me over her son’s proposal to Megan.”

“And you felt compelled to show her the bronze?”

Her chin rose abruptly. Her lips compressed into a severe line before she burst into the strangely hysterical laughter again. “No. In an effort to relieve her fears, I mentioned Megan’s talent at watercolors. I took her to your study to examine the one you had so nicely framed while you were gone.”

“Dear God!” Reed ran his hand nervously through his hair. “She saw the bronzes did she?”

“Yes. Well, one of them at any rate, before she fainted. Fell quite heavily, she did. Gave me such a fright, her head banging twice upon the floor as it did. I feared she was suffering an apoplectic fit and might give up the ghost right there. All the while Tidbit was sniffing at her face and barking loud enough to raise the dead directly in her ear. When she had been revived, and it was no easy task, requiring both smelling salts and burnt feathers, she took her leave, complaining the entire time she was helped down the stairs about how dreadfully she suffered the headache. No wonder with a knot the size of a goose egg on her forehead. She also complained about how strangely deaf she was in the one ear and how shockingly improper the bronze was. She considered it an abomination, an affront to God, Harold, the church and Megan’s family.”

“And you, mother? What did you think of it?”

“Well, I had no idea what she was talking about. So, I went back to your room and had a look. They are striking, Reed. I was most intrigued when I realized, upon closer examination, that there was not one, but two bronzes possessed of Megan’s features. It occurred to me then, that the figures looked rather like your work. Tell me why in God’s name do you possess such likenesses of Miss Breech?

He had no answer for that, simply went to his room and let his hands roved over the bronze of Megan’s look-alike clasped in the arms of the satyr he should never have drawn. He imagined Lady Burnham passed out in the middle of his new Austrian rug, his mother waving burning feathers beneath her nose while the dog yapped and yapped. He chuckled dryly. No need to worry about Harold Burnham’s pursuit of Megan anymore.

And yet, Harold never had concerned him. Giovanni did.

His gaze roved uneasily from the tapestry of Narcissus and Echo, to the bronze in his hands. The disturbing image of Megan, clasped in Giovanni Giamarco’s arms distracted him from all thought of Harold, distracted him, too, from his goal, which was to decide how best to invest his time and efforts, that he might make a living. He shook away the troubling idea that he should race at once to Megan’s side. His direction must be clear before he went to her with a declaration of his feelings. He meant to ask her to bind her future to his. What future, must be decided.

What was he to do? What could he do? What had he done thus far with his life? He stared, unseeing, at his wall full of ordinance maps. He had pinned flags to the wall. He had pushed pencils and paintbrushes across countless pages. He had seen a little of the world. Was there no more substance to him than that?

Life, as he knew it, would soon be swept away from him, pulled from his grasp piece by piece by bill collectors and creditors. He could not paint for his supper. As much as he enjoyed painting, as much talent as God had endowed him with, he lacked brilliance. He frowned, determined to find answers, not to wallow in self-pity and doubt.

What had Megan said? That answers were generally right under one’s nose, if seen from the right perspective. What were his choices? His talents? Surely his education and artistic skills counted for something. His gaze roved, searching out the promised answers.

The bronzes. Row after row of tiny women mocked him in their silent poses. A sculptor had thought enough of his sketches to create a pair of bronzes. There was always the chance the man might want to work from more of his drawings. Hope dawning, he wrenched open his sketchbooks, combing them page by page, one after another, for more sketches that might work as sculpture. But the sketches for Megan’s bronze were quite singular in their beauty. Nothing quite like them graced the many pages of his sketchbooks. Megan’s suggestion that his collection looked very much like a guidebook resurfacing, he started a pile of his better drawings and watercolors from his Tour.

To the group of sketches he attached a letter to a gentleman in London whose name appeared as publisher in several of the books that lined his shelves. Binding them together, he prepared them for posting.

There! That was a start. One book was not lucrative enough to make a living, but it was a beginning. What else did his education, countless hours of rote memorization and recitation prepare him for? To what constructive end was his list-making and map-making suited?

Reed sat himself at the desk and wrote up a short, depressing list of possibilities.  He could not see himself engaging with any enthusiasm in any of the occupations he had written down. Anything, of course, was preferable to being hauled off to debtor’s prison. His gaze roved the room. How stupid he had been, how blind--to go gallivanting off to Europe, blithely throwing money away on bronze trinkets and tapestries he could in no way afford. He turned his back on a collection he no longer took joy in, walked to the arrow slit window to look out over the narrow bit of countryside visible. He felt a prisoner today, in the landscape of his own ignorance.

There were no answers to be found outside the window, even fewer to be found within the walls of Talcott Keep. He turned to face his room again. The maps on his wall offered no clear direction. Should he go to India? Perhaps look for a fresh start in America? Should he turn his back on England, his parents and their money problems just as they had turned their backs on him throughout most of his childhood, too caught up in their own self-absorbed lives to notice how much he craved their attention, their love and affection?

Could he turn his back on Talcott Keep and Blythe Corner forever? Could he, in all fairness, ask so much of Megan? What a pompous, self-centered ass he had been to sit here, in his tower, assuming himself above the common cares of the world, pinning judgment and recrimination all over the map of other men’s toil. What was it Megan had said that day at the quarry? “The picturesque is a luxury of the leisure class.”

He no longer numbered among the leisure class. Far from it. Time to decide by his actions his own worth. Out of habit, the comfortable square of his Claude glass filled his palm. He peered through the rose-colored square. The maps on his wall softly blurred pink. The problems he faced could not have been clearer. He could no longer frame his life with distance and an absence of emotion.

Like the water in a force fed by too much rain, anger and frustration welled within him. With an oath, he threw the folio of Claude glasses across the room. In a positive explosion of dislodged flags, it struck his pointlessly meticulous and involved map of England, lenses shattering, rose, umber, and ocher shards flying in all directions. With the violent intention of tearing down the well-flagged evidence of his absence of purpose, he crunched through the broken glass to grab the top edge of a map.

In the very instant that he did so, the Lake District caught his eye, the remaining colored flags indicating slate mines, copper mines, graphite and coal, the fat blue lines evidence of the growing system of water canals. In a flash something clicked in his brain with such perfect symmetry, such simple clarity, it stayed his hand midair. The writing was on the wall! Not pointless map pinning after all. Here was the answer! Under his very nose! Just as Megan had predicted.

Chapter Twenty-One

M
egan viewed the Annual May Exhibition at the National Gallery, not in the company of Reed Talcott as she had hoped, but with Harold Burnham. Normally, she would have enjoyed the gallery no matter who accompanied her. The walls here were covered, four and more deep, floor to ceiling, in rows of paintings; gods and goddesses, prophets and portraits, landscapes and lapdogs.

She was not enjoying herself, however. Harold had, he told her, something of moment to discuss with her. Only now that they were together, he seemed reluctant to broach the matter. Megan dreaded it as well, for the only topic she could think that Harold might need to discuss with her was his proposal.

There were no end of potential springboards for their discussion. Everywhere, on every wall and in every alcove, there were depictions of lovers loving and kissers kissing. Fat cherubs kissed shapely, naked goddesses. Dark, half-naked men embraced fair, half-naked women. Young men stole kisses of young women in gardens, beneath mistletoe and beside haystacks. Judas, in the ultimate betrayal, kissed Christ. The painted expression of passions to which she had only recently been introduced, met her gaze everywhere she turned, reminding her of Reed, of wild, wet kisses and the sounds of rushing water. All around her were canvas trapped views and vistas that brought to mind no one so much as Reed, from whom she had heard nothing. She focused for a moment on Harold’s lips as he spoke. She tried to imagine kissing him with any sort of passion--tried and failed.

Was she enjoying herself, Harold asked. Did she not find the streets far too filthy and noisome? Was she not homesick so far from family, friends and familiar faces?

“London is a noisy, smelly place,” she agreed. “But what wonders! I never imagined a place so crowded and lively.” She gestured toward her aunt, who strolled several paces in front of them flourishing her ivory-topped, ebony wood walking stick. Aunt Winifred had no real need of a walking stick, her stride was as vigorous, her balance as even as a much younger woman. She affected its use, she had told Megan, “because it lends a most distinguished air.” Unobtrusively chaperoning, but for an occasional speaking rap of the aforementioned walking stick, she appeared to be with them for no other reason than to enjoy the paintings in the company of her best friend Mrs. Blaynay.

“Aunt Win has gone out of her way to make me feel welcome. She has introduced me to any number of her friends. Every day we receive a deluge of invitations. Fetes, soirees, dances and teas. My head fairly whirls.”

“I have heard you are to be seen often in the company of a handsome Italian.”

“Oh? You must mean Giovanni. Wonderful fellow. I must make a point of introducing you. Giovanni surprises me, you see. We met, quite casually, while I was at the Lakes. I had no idea at the time, nor did he make it clear, that he is the second son of a Count. His father is a wealthy and influential man. I have been so informed by more than one wellborn damsel has tried to detach Mr. Giamarco from my arm when he has been kind enough to offer himself as escort. He has surprised me too, Harold, in behaving the complete and proper gentleman in every way. He struck me, you see, when first we did meet, as too passionate a fellow.”

“Too passionate?”

“Yes, as his countrymen are often characterized. I believed him undependable where ladies were concerned.”

“Undependable? In what way?”

“Well, to put it quite frankly, I thought he bestowed his affections without discrimination.”

“No discrimination. Undependable. Too passionate, and yet you are seen with him everywhere.”

“Yes.” She saw nothing strange in it. “He has proven me wrong on every front. You will like him immensely. I am sure of it. He and Reed did not like one another at all at first, but they have become the best of friends.”

“Reed. Have you spoken to him of late?” Harold wore a troubled look when he asked. His expression so perfectly matched Megan’s own mood that she did not stop to think why Harold should find mention of Reed troubling.

“No. I have not seen or heard from him, though I have looked for him at every gathering. He is supposed to be in London. He will regret having missed our outing today. He expressed a particular desire to see the National Gallery when last we spoke.”

“Did he?” Harold cleared his throat.

“Yes. There is nothing so delightful to a painter as examining other people’s paintings and there are landscapes Reed would love to see. They adhere precisely to the romantic tenants he believes in so fervently.”

“Romantic tenants? Yes, well. I do not know much about that. I know next to nothing about painters and painting.” He paused before a depiction of a nude Venus. “Tell me, do artists often work from models?”

Her eyes were still occupied by a landscape that reminded her of the Lakes. “But of course. Some landscape artists recreate entire scenes in miniature in their studios, using pebbles to represent boulders and twigs as trees.”