Crimson Rapture (42 page)

She
could hardly believe her luck. "Oh good! Before dawn, I suppose?"
Chessy nodded and Christina, after promising to meet him on time, turned and
raced back to the house. She set the lantern carefully back on the latch. The
huge front door slammed shut. Happiness and excitement brought a smile she
could not suppress, made her skip like a young child to the stairs.

She
stopped abruptly.

Justin
stood at his study doors. His gaze fell over her slender figure shrouded in
pale rose silk, the long unbound hair cascading in ripples over that. He
quickly grasped the designs of the uncommon material used for her nightclothes.
It teased with the hint of transparency but just a hint, leaving a man with
only one thought—that of taking it off.

Hope
shattered the instant upon seeing him, while his brass scrutiny caused nervous
hands to clasp the thin folds of her robe tightly at her neck.

"What
are you doing outside at this hour and dressed like that?"

The
question came as a demand. She stumbled awkwardly. "I... I went to talk
with Chessy."

"About
what?"

"I
wondered if I might go into town with him on the morrow?"

"Hmmm."
He hardly heard.

She
was certain his pause was in search of reasons why she couldn't go on an
outing, and she held her breath, bracing for some cruel rule that would prevent
her from going anywhere.

While
Justin was finding it a considerable struggle to think past the rose silk, he
finally triumphed and returned to the question. He wondered if Chessy was
enough escort for her; he supposed he was. Boston's streets swarmed with a
growing number of unemployed sailors and he knew better than most that
unemployed men and trouble went hand in hand. Though probably two or three in
every ten men working, worked for him. At least one of his men would be at
every corner.

"If
you don't think I should—" She turned.

"No,
no I'm sure you'll enjoy an outing."

She
looked at him in shock.

"I
was only hoping though that I might persuade you to leave Justin home. I
haven't seen him in a long while and I'm probably going to be rather busy in a
few days."

She
paused in plain stupefaction.

"Christina."
He smiled, misunderstanding her expression, "I'm sure he'll survive a day
without you."

She
nodded slowly and then before he could change his mind, she started quickly up
the stairs.

"And,
Christina—"

She
stopped but did not look around, nervously crossing both arms and fingers in a
fervent prayer that he would not now renege.

"Don't
let me see you wearing things like that outside your bedchambers."

Christina
smiled with relief, almost laughed, and managed to nod before racing up the
stairs. Justin found himself fighting not to follow her. He combated this
battle by forcing unpleasant memories back to mind.

For
a long moment he stood at the bottom of the stairs looking up, just as he had
once stood on a mountain looking down with a question wanting to be yelled:
"Why, Christina? Why did you do this to us?"

* * * * *

"You
ain't goin' in thar!"

Christina
looked from Chessy to the window of a small shop pushed between one of Boston's
poorer printing shops and what seemed to be an ale house. In England such shops
were called "swap shops." Here it was a bootery and trading post
combined. In small print beneath the signpost read: Gold and Jewelry, Bought
and Sold. This was what made her stop Chessy.

"Why
not?" she asked innocently.

"Why
not?" he repeated. "It just ain't done, that's why. That shop if fer
desperate po' folks and fools, lowlifes, the lot. Folks like you just don't
have to be swindled by the greedy vermin that run those shops."

"I
just want to see."

"See?
What's thar to see but folks' treasures bought fer a nickel of what thar worth,
being sold fer a dollar more. I'm tellin' ya, it just ain't done."

"Well,
I'm desperate enough to do it."

"What
you have to be desperate about?"

She
paused in exasperation. "It's too hard to explain. I have to; we just
won't tell anyone."

Chessy
watched her gather the soft folds of her pale beige day dress, matching brown
velvet jacket, and reticule. The brown hat she sported reminded him of a
painted picture he once saw of a bandit named Robin Hood, with its feather and,
hell—it alone was worth half as much as the whole damn shop.

Chessy
glanced nervously over the busy street, already imagining the bustling
passersby's interest in the carriage and its occupant. The group of old bats
across the way had already fallen into whispers. He smiled generously, tipped
his hat.

Lord,
he would hear about this one.

An
hour or so later Christina sat on a bench outside another store waiting for
Chessy to return from his errands. A sketchbook sat open on her lap and she,
for the longest while, contented herself with just staring at a pure blank
page. Then, furiously, she began drawing.

Two
sketches later, she was still consumed with the vision in her mind. She did not
notice the man watching her intently. Finally and with a frustrated sigh, she
slammed the book shut.

Why
would her vision never transform to paper?

Wondering
what was taking Chessy so long, she looked up and her eyes fell on the
arresting face staring back at her. He wore a life's passion on his well-lined
face, in the intensity of sharp dark eyes, these accented by severe dark brows.
Dark hair, liberally streaked with gray, was brushed straight back from an
unusually long forehead and gave a fleeting impression of madness, but only fleeting
for the intelligence written on his face was plain as well.

"Let
me see," was all he said as he reached a hand to her book. His fingernails
were stained with paint. While he studied her two sketches, she looked at him.
He wore no jacket against the chilly winter day. Well-worn clothes were covered
by a smock that showed a smattering of multicolored paint. Paint was encrusted
on his boots, too, as well as beneath his fingernails.

Beneath
one arm he held a carefully wrapped box, one he had just picked up from the
store. She was certain it was paint, ordered all the way from London or Paris.

He
looked at her, then back at the sketch and back at her with a quizzical
expression. "You trapped the man's greed well." It was a sketch of a
trade shopkeeper, a man he often had to deal with.

The
compliment filled her, somehow she knew he offered them but rarely.

"And
I saw you were dissatisfied with it. Why?"

"It
never comes out like the picture in my mind," she said with feeling as she
looked at the sketchbook.

"You
hold the pencil too lightly, as though you are afraid of telling what you
see." Christina's eyes shifted and told him that this was true. "Do
you paint?"

"No,
I've not ever had the chance."

The
answer was telling. He would not normally even ask the question, for no woman
painted. Women of her class merely passed their leisure wasting good paper with
bad drawings, desperately trying to convince themselves they were not useless.
He had already known she was different, as unusual as her talent. Now he knew
she had the desire as well.

"You
need instruction," he said and glancing at her clothes, "and I need
your wealthy father's or husband's money."

She
blushed with shock and embarrassment.

"Spare
me the display of such shallow emotion." He did not smile. "I have
neither the time nor the inclination to attend to propriety. Your clothes tell
me you were either born into or married someone's fortune, probably both. A
simple fact. Another two facts—you need instruction and I need your money. Make
no mistake, though," he cautioned. "I'd not offer my instruction for
money alone. No, you have a rare talent, made rarer by the sad fact of your
sex. Had nature not made such a blatant error in assigning you the female sex,
you could join my weekly class where I—in vain—attempt to instruct a sorry
group of idiots who have—for some unfortunate reason—the shared delusion that
they are artists. Society, however, would hardly stand by such an arrangement.
Women are not expected to have minds to think with, yet alone talent. Beautiful
women even less so. So, we will have to make private arrangements. You may call
on me at any time."

Stunned
speechless and in a daze, she passively accepted her sketchbook back and
watched him turn to leave. "Wait," she suddenly called out stop him.
"You must be very expensive?"

"Yes."
He watched her expression drop with plain disappointment. "Young
lady," he began with condescension just as plain, "if you haven't
learned to use your feminine wiles on a man yet, I was mistaken about your
wits. What husband could refuse you?"

Hers...

"Who
is your husband?"

"Ah...
Mr. Phillips, but—" She was about to say that wasn't the problem, only it
was exactly the problem.

"I
should have guessed."

"You
know of him?"

"Yes.
He's had the good taste to buy three or four of my paintings. You should be
glad. Not only would he encourage the pursuit of talent—even in his wife— but
he's also one of the few people in this godforsaken country with the wits to
appreciate it. And if anyone can afford what I'd ask, it's him."

He
left Christina without a word of good-bye, which was good, for Christina could
not now speak, intimidated into speechlessness when it occurred to her just who
he was. Charles Paton. Two of his paintings hung in the house, one in Justin's
study, and one in the hall. Both were seascapes: pictures of a ship battling a
raging sea; disquieting and violent, man's smallness pitted against an
omnipotent nature. She had studied the paintings for hours, with both
admiration and envy.

She
thought on the conversation the entire trip back and returned to it many times
in the next few days. With her usual self-effacing manner, she first tried to
tell herself that he saw talent in her sketches only because he—like most
artists—was in need, seeking to solicit a gullible pupil with flattery. Artists
were always poor; sadly few paintings were valued in any given artist's
lifetime. He had simply wanted Justin's money.

She
dismissed the subject from her mind time and again. What did it matter anyway?
She had naught to pay him. She had bargained for nearly a half hour with the
man in the shop, finally leaving with just barely enough to purchase a
sketchbook and a proper pencil. There was not a ha'penny left. She could never
but never bring herself to ask Justin for such a frivolous indulgence as
painting instruction.

As
many times as she dismissed it as wishful thinking, the subject persisted to
intrude on her thoughts. To actually paint on a canvas! Put colors to her
sketches! She had always dreamed of painting but never as a reality. Her father
had thought she wasted too much time in her sketchbooks as it was and then too
he could never afford painting instruction, even if there had been someone in
Hollingsborne who could provide them. Richard loved to indulge her every whim,
but throughout her time with him, she had been consumed with a new mother's
fascination of her first child. The idea had never occurred to her then, but
even if it had, she suspected Richard would think it ridiculous for a woman to
want to paint.

Thinking
again on the subject one morning while watching little Justin play in his
nursery, she wondered what Justin would think if they were on terms? Would
he—like Richard and her father—think it was a waste of time? An unnecessary
indulgence? "You should be glad, not only would he encourage the pursuit
of talent—even in his wife, but he was the wits to appreciate it." This
could not be true. Men never thought women capable of art. Some part of herself
wanted not to believe this. Some part of herself longed for a chance to show
them wrong.

Little
Justin was immersed in his blocks, fascinated by the possibilities. Christina
returned to her sketchbook, reminding herself to hold the pencil tighter,
always seeking a boldness that evaded her.

She
heard Justin's two guests taking leave downstairs. Their mounts were called up
from the stables. The nursery was directly over the front porch and through the
open window, she heard Justin as he saw the two men off.

"You'll
know tomorrow?"

"For
a certainty," one of the men replied.

"Good.
Bring it to me as soon as possible. And tell your Mr. Lowell I am not
mad."

She
wondered if she imagined the hint of anger in Justin's tone, or if it was real.
Perhaps ill tidings were brought. He never confided in her about his work, or
anything for that matter, and though she always wondered, she certainly knew
better than to ask. Looking at her caused him discomfort, speaking more so.

Though
lately...