Seaton Manor is very fine and the countryside is magnificent. I shall enjoy being mistress here. Today I met a neighbor girl called Margaret Williard. Not beautiful, but pretty and sweet and with speaking eyes. I think she is in love with Marcus, because she becomes so quiet when he is near. He is oblivious. So like a man! Margaret must surely resent me, yet she is always gracious. I hope we can be friends. Perhaps she will marry Marcus's younger brother Anthony, the mad artist. He and two of his friends shall arrive tomorrow. I look forward to meeting them—
The mad artists have arrived. Young Lord Frazier is very handsome and a bit full of himself, but most gallant. He sketched me as Aphrodite. George Hampton is of humble birth and a little shy around so many people of superior station. But he is a dear, with a natural dignity that will serve him well. As for Marcus's brother Anthony— Dear God, I don't know what to say of Anthony.
The next entry, a week later, was stark:
Anthony has asked me to elope with him. To even consider it is indecent—yet how could I bear to be his sister-in-law? And would it be fair to marry Marcus now that I know I do not love him? What a fool I was to say that I thought I was in love. If one has to think about it, one isn't.
A day later she wrote:
Anthony and I are going to elope. We can be in Gretna Green in a day. I don't care about the scandal, or the fact that I shan't be Lady Bowden and mistress of Seaton Manor. We shall have a roof over our heads and each other. Nothing more matters. May God, and Marcus, forgive me for my wickedness.
He continued reading, absorbed by the story of her life as a wife and mother. He smiled when he read:
I think Anthony was a bit disappointed at first that I did not bear a son. But now he is quite enraptured by his tiny daughter with her red curls. Already he has filled half a sketchbook with pictures of her sleeping and gurgling and doing what all infants do. One would think she was the first baby ever born.
The first volume of the diary ended there, so he got up to stretch and take a break. To his surprise, it was after midnight. Time for bed.
But before he retired, he spent a few minutes with his pastel crayons to sketch a picture of a baby with bright red curls and grave hazel eyes.
For at least the fiftieth time, Rebecca thought gloomily that the worst thing about the Lake District was its distance from London. Her father paid heavily for post horses, which kept travel time to a mere four days. Four long, bruising days, when nothing could be done but hold on to a strap and think.
Since her mind circled between thoughts of Kenneth and of the danger to her father, the process was not a pleasant one. Nor did she relish the prospect of returning to the place where her mother had died. Would it be possible to stay at Ravensbeck and not see Helen at every turn? She hoped that after a few days the pain would dissipate. It would be cruelly unfair if her pleasure in the Lakes was permanently ruined.
The coach hit a large bump and she lurched toward Lavinia. A quick grab at the strap prevented her from crashing into the older woman.
Sir Anthony said from the opposite seat, "Is it my imagination, or are the roads worse than usual this year?"
Rebecca had to smile. "You say that every year. Your memory mercifully obscures what a wretched trip it is."
"And you say
that
every year. It's coming back to me now."
Lavinia said lightly, "At least traveling at this speed gets us there quickly."
"That is what Helen always said," Sir Anthony commented.
There was a short, uneasy pause. Rebecca looked from her father to Lavinia. Once she had thought their relationship casual, but no longer. They had been friends for decades. The trust and easy companionship they had always shared was now supplemented with what Rebecca suspected was a very satisfying physical relationship. She had learned to recognize the signs since her own recent discovery of passion.
But her father, who carried the guilt of his wife's ambiguous death, might be incapable of reaching out for happiness. A push was necessary. Besides, it would be nice if
someone
was happy. "The mourning period for Mother will be over soon," Rebecca said. "Why don't you two get married?"
The silence congealed like a rice pudding as the older couple stared at her, thunderstruck.
After a long moment, Lavinia said in a voice that wasn't quite steady, "He hasn't asked me, dear."
Rebecca turned her gaze to her father. "Why haven't you asked her? The two of you are virtually living together. You ought to make an honest woman of her."
Sir Anthony gasped. "I can't believe that I am hearing this from my own daughter. Have you no respect?"
"I learned outrageousness under my father's roof," Rebecca said, unrepentant. "Remarrying wouldn't be disloyal to Mother. She would not have wanted you to be alone. There are precious few women who would be as patient with an eccentric artist as Lavinia. She'll do a good job of managing the household after Lord Kimball leaves."
Looking on the verge of explosion, her father snapped, "If you say one more word, I will put you out to walk."
"At least my backside wouldn't be so sore," she said tartly.
Her father gave a snort of disgust and turned to look out the window at the unremarkable green fields through which they were passing. At least a mile went by before Lavinia said in a small voice, "I didn't put Rebecca up to that, Anthony."
"I know," he said gruffly. "You would continue to put up with my selfishness indefinitely."
Speaking as if they were alone in the carriage, Lavinia said softly, "Of course I would. I've always loved you, you know."
"I know that. I've loved you, too, ever since you appeared in my studio when you were seventeen and modeled for the most delicious Jezebel ever painted."
He swallowed hard. "But I don't deserve the love of a generous, giving woman. I loved Helen, too, but I was a bad husband to her."
"You were the husband she wanted. And you are the husband I want." Lavinia's tone turned wry. "I've made a vocation of being outrageous, and I slept with a lot of men over the years because I couldn't sleep with the one I wanted. We're neither of us perfect, Anthony. It's better that way."
She reached across the coach. He grasped her hand convulsively. Rebecca turned her head discreetly to the scenery, ignoring the sounds of Lavinia shifting to the seat next to Sir Anthony and the soft murmurings between them. It sounded as if they were sorting matters out to their satisfaction.
Cheerful Lavinia would be an easier partner than Helen with her volatile moods. In fact, Rebecca realized, perhaps the reason her parents had indulged in affairs was because they were both so intense and emotional that they had needed relief from their marriage. Helen had found peace with steady George Hampton. Her father would do the same with Lavinia. It would be a different love than the tempestuous bond he had shared with Helen, but nonetheless valid.
She was happy for them. She really was. Yet as she stared sightlessly at the green countryside, she ached from the emptiness inside her. The brief happiness with Kenneth seemed like a mirage, one she would never see again.
Kenneth spent the day after the Seatons' departure looking for carpenters, painters, and plasterers. Luckily, an army friend who now worked for the Duke of Candover was able to refer him to reliable craftsmen. Kenneth also called on his solicitor to let him know of Hermione's likely marriage. The solicitor cordially loathed Lady Kimball and could be trusted to look out for the Wilding family interests.
After dinner, Kenneth wrote out detailed specifications for the remodeling job to guide Minton. The butler had turned out to be a very capable manager. Sir Anthony's next secretary would not have to be as involved in household matters as he himself had been.
When he finished the instructions, he opened the next volume of Helen Seaton's diary. The closer he came to the present, the more carefully he looked for hints of a secret enemy. She had recorded instances of jealousy, backbiting, and politics. However, he found no anecdotes that suggested possible danger.
Still, he enjoyed the reading. Helen was an excellent writer, amusing and able to skewer pretensions with a phrase. She had created a vivid portrait of almost three decades of English painting and painters. When he returned the diaries, he would suggest they be published in fifty years, when most of the people mentioned would be dead.
But there were parts that the family might want to edit out as being too personal. He was struck hard by a description of a miscarriage when Rebecca was about two years old.
The baby would have been a son. Oh, God, why can't I weep? I miss my mother desperately. At every major event of my life—my betrothal, my marriage, Rebecca's birth—I miss her almost as if she had died yesterday. Yet, still, I cannot weep. Perhaps there is a season for proper grieving, and mine has not yet arrived. Or perhaps I missed the right time and am now doomed to mourn forever, incomplete. My sorrow is like a vast endless interior ocean, yet I cannot release it with tears.
Her words touched something deep inside him. He laid the diary down, his face rigid.
He had known his share of grief. Like Helen, for a long time his misery had been bottled up in his heart, almost forgotten except for a dull, chronic ache. It had taken Rebecca to teach him how to release his private horrors.
Ironically, she had given him the key to freedom while remaining trapped in her own grief. Like Helen, she mourned her mother's loss, and he guessed that, like Helen, she had never wept. Certainly he had never seen a sign of tears, even when her eyes were haunted by anguish.
Perhaps, when he saw her again, he would be able to help her find consolation. But for now, he knew beyond doubt that the time had come for him to paint his own last haunting image.
He headed upstairs to his studio. Watercolor would be best because of its fluid swiftness. He prayed that after he committed the image to paper, he would finally be free to use the emotions of his past as he chose rather than be crucified by them.
Kenneth worked until dawn to paint his last nightmare. Though it was not yet complete, in the process he found a weary sense of peace. The picture could be a commercial success, he supposed. Certainly it was dramatic. George Hampton would be delighted to add it to the Peninsular series. But some things were too private to reveal to the world. Rebecca was the only person he could imagine showing the picture to. The thought that they might never be on close terms again was chilling.
Again, most of the day was taken up in making arrangements for Seaton House. He pushed himself hard, hoping that in another two days he would be able to head north.
Though tired from lack of sleep, after dinner he started reading the third and last of Helen Seaton's diaries. In the early part, she revealed a growing sense of melancholia.
Why is it that the same things that make me happy in May are like ashes in January? This past week, life has been such an active horror that I have wondered if it would be best to go to sleep and never wake up. Certainly Anthony and Rebecca and George would be better off without me. Only the knowledge—gray without hope, but undeniable—that things will get better keeps me from acting on my cowardice. That, and the fact that I lack the determination even to put an end to myself.
He shook his head after reading that passage. No wonder those close to her had worried about the possibility of suicide.
As the years passed, she ceased to make entries during the winter months. He guessed that writing took more energy than she possessed. Either that or she could not bear the misery of her own thoughts.
Yet he still found no clues as to who might be a lethal enemy. From sheer doggedness he kept reading.
Then, only a few pages from the end, he found an entry that shocked him into full wakefulness.
Anthony has painted the most wonderful portrait of me, laughing and looking wicked on the Ravensbeck lawn. He says that I am his muse. He put the portrait in the drawing room so that everyone could admire it after dinner tonight. Malcolm had an odd expression as he looked at it. He said the most absurd thing—that I was Anthony's heart. That without me, Anthony would no longer be a great artist.
Kenneth stared at the line as the pieces clicked grimly into place. The heart missing from the gimmal ring— that had not been a message from Helen, but from Frazier. He had removed the woman that he thought was Sir Anthony's heart and inspiration.
Great things had been expected of Frazier when he was young, but he had never fulfilled his early promise. His work had been stunted by the smallness and rigidity of his soul. For almost three decades, he had been condemned to watch as Sir Anthony's star had risen higher and higher.
What had started as a friendship of equals must have become warped by Frazier's jealousy and resentment. Kenneth remembered Frazier saying sorrowfully that Sir Anthony's work had not been the same since his wife's death. That had been wishful thinking, and the wish hadn't survived the exhibition success of the Waterloo pictures.
The final insult had come when Sir Anthony announced that he was Benjamin West's choice to become next president of the academy. In effect, he would be the head of the profession in Britain, while Frazier languished as an associate who had never been judged worthy of becoming a full academician.