Paxton's War (15 page)

It had been five years since he'd seen Rianne, and he'd forgotten what a startling appearance she made. Her eyes were her most remarkable feature: slightly darker than Colleen's, they were more burnt gold than pure amber, but piercing nonetheless. Her small unsmiling mouth was but a short line beneath a long, thin, sloped nose. Her face was lean and angular and revealed a certain hard beauty. Her arms and neck were especially long, giving her the impression of being somewhat thinner than she actually was. Her crowning glory was a fantastic wig that rose above her head like a proud bird with an independent life of its own. The section over her forehead, a combination of human and horse hair, was embellished with a network of jewel-strung wires that gave the whole affair the look of a crown. In the back, cascading rows of elaborate curls were decorated with long strings of pearls, multicolored feathers, and bunches of silk violets and lilies of the valley.

“I'm happy to see you again, Miss McClagan,” Jason said, bowing politely.

“And I'm delighted to see you, Jason. But I thought you were in Europe.”

“I was, and—”

“Just returned yesterday,” Colleen broke in. “Isn't it wonderful?”

“And so soon in Charleston,” Rianne murmured, wondering what could have prompted him to leave Brandborough after so short a reunion with his family. “Roy?…”

“He was exhausted. He'd worked all night, only to lose his patient. You know how he is.”

“I do indeed,” Rianne said dryly. She shook her head. “Every time is like the first for that man, bless his soul. But enough of your father's eccentricities. I'm pleased, if somewhat astonished, that he allowed you to escort my niece here, Mr. Paxton.”

“What?” Caught off guard because he'd been staring at her wig and hadn't paid attention to a word she'd said, Jason answered as best he could. “Oh, yes. My pleasure, ma'am. My—”

“My wig … alarms you, Mr. Paxton?” Rianne asked with a laugh.

“No! I … that is, I …”

Her rich, contralto voice carried a strong flavor of Scottish brogue. “Not my everyday wig, I assure you. Rather, my impression of Cleopatra's,” she explained, turning about so he could see it in its full glory. “Given, that is, that she lived in modern times. It isn't finished, of course, until Mrs. Choate approves. I predict she'll ask for many changes—worth a respectable number of pounds, by the by, before the ball. Come see, children.”

She walked to a work table that was covered with great bolts of fabric, pieces of ribbon, spools of thread, and assorted pairs of scissors and other sewing tools. The rest of the shop was in an equally unorganized but fascinating state of disarray: fine pieces of English and French furniture—chairs, divans, and sideboards—sat next to roughly hewn crates full of supplies. Along the length of one wall, shelves were crammed with colorful materials. On another were pinned sketches of gowns, wigs, parasols, gloves, hats, and shawls. From a gilded box, Rianne produced a tiny golden pin-backed thimble. “Each of my major customers receives one of these,” she explained, “to be worn as a symbol of my art. An ingenious touch, wouldn't you say?”

“Indeed,” asserted Jason, who couldn't help but admire the pleated frills of her intricately embroidered silver-and-purple gown, the way in which it puffed out dramatically to either side of her ample hips, and the fashionably tight sleeves that stopped at the elbow, leaving several inches of fine lace ruffles to encircle her lower arms.

“Doesn't he look good, Aunt Rianne?” Colleen asked. “Aren't you at all surprised to see him?”

“The gentle slope of his eyes tells me he's even more the dreamer than when I observed him last. He seems a man whose soul partakes of an ephemeral music we mortals shall never hear. Surprised to see him? No. Little surprises me. I knew he'd return someday.” Her eyes twinkled merrily as she winked at Jason. “And I suspected, I'm bound to say, that my niece would be there to fetch you and whisk you away before another female had time to claim the prize herself. A job well done, I'd say.”

“Aunt Rianne!” Colleen protested. “Please …”

“There shall be no hypocrisy in this shop. There's enough hypocrisy in this once-free city already. I speak to the point—be it kind or cruel. And the point here is surely romance. I see it in the eyes of both of you. And I say to you, my good niece, that yours is a choice well made. My advice is not to tarry, for men are not unlike the noble steed that brought you here. They need to be captured, tamed, and bridled. As one who has never quite achieved that goal, I speak from experience. But I shall neither reveal to nor bore you with details of my past. Instead, I'll treat you to a pot of genuine Scottish tea, a luxury that has perhaps of late eluded our distinguished composer. To be in possession of such tea leaves in days such as these is not, you understand, a slight achievement. It's already steeped. I shan't be a moment.”

“I know she seems a little grumpy,” Colleen explained as Rianne swept out of the room, “but she does have a smiling heart. You'll see.”

“I think she's wonderful,” Jason said.

Colleen replied by kissing him on his mouth at the very moment Rianne reentered and cleared her throat. Blushing, Colleen quickly moved away from Jason.

Rianne placed the tray and tea set on a small mahogany Pembroke table and began to pour. “'Tis nothing to be ashamed of, child. Passion is the lifeblood of what would otherwise be a paltry existence. What is art without passion? Would the composer not agree with such a statement?” she asked, handing him a dainty porcelain cup.

“The composer,” Jason replied, “has been taught in the great capitals of European culture that art is the product of reason.”

“But are they reasonable men who take such a position?” Rianne asked. “Or are they, creatures of a dying civilization, simply unaware of their own deaths?”

“Call them what you will. There are, nonetheless—Mmm, this tea's delicious. Yes, there is a number of geniuses among them.”

“Ah,” Rianne replied. “But what of the undiscoverd geniuses of this vast land? Why, in this city alone I myself am familiar with dozens of artists intent on developing styles of their own, quite independent from, and indifferent to, I might add, what may be considered artful in Europe. Many of my own designs, you will note, vary widely from the European norm, even though I must, I admit, be practical in offering the women of Charleston gowns that they consider fashionable.”

“Then you aren't adverse to selling your wares to the wives of those sympathetic to the Crown?” Jason asked, curious to test the extent of Rianne's patriotism.

“On Tory Row, a street less than a quarter-mile from where we sit, my reputation for needlework is as formidable as among those who share my own adversion for our English lords and masters. I'm a practical woman, Mr. Paxton, dependent on my own wit and talent. I place survival above all else.”

Jason wasn't surprised when Colleen protested. “But only a few months ago you said that certain causes are worth dying for!”

“Indeed I did, though 'tis not inconsistent with my belief that we better serve our cause alive than dead. Do I make myself clear, Mr. Paxton?”

“Clear as a bell, madam.”

“But enough talk of war! I suppose you've come to Charleston to see Mr. Courtenay and Mr. Ponti.”

“You know them?” Jason asked. “I mean, other than by notoriety?”

“Extremely well. They are kind and noble gentlemen, if somewhat bizarre, and I know of their great affection for you. They speak of you often, and I take it as a great compliment to my niece's charms that you chose to visit me before them.”

Jason appreciated Rianne's courtesy and the fact that, unlike practically everyone else, she had not pressed him on political matters, as though she had detected his sensitivity to such issues. “And visit them I must,” he said, noting the time. “It's getting late in the day to arrive unannounced, so if I might excuse myself,” he said, rising from the table, I'd best leave now.”

The word
leave
alarmed Colleen. “Would you mind terribly, Jason, if I went with you?” she asked as she remembered her aunt's words—“my advice is not to tarry.” The thought of being separated from Jason, even for a few hours, disturbed her. Besides, she wanted to know all the people important to his life, and that included his patrons.

The corners of Rianne's mouth turned in an approximation of a smile. “I think that's a splendid idea,” she said, pleased with Colleen's forwardness. “It would be most illuminating for Colleen to make their acquaintance—that is, if you have no objection.”

Jason preferred a private reunion with his benefactors, but his hand was forced. “None at all,” he said, hiding his irritation.

Rianne shook a finger at him. “I trust you'll have my niece safely escorted home at an hour that will raise none of the eyebrows of my prying neighbors.”

“My word is as good my deed, madam,” he said before kissing her outstretched hand and noticing that her skin, although wrinkled, was extremely soft and pleasing to the lips.

Chapter 10

“We must hear about everything, from your first day to your last,” insisted Piero Sebastiano Ponti.

“Give Jason time,” replied his friend and constant companion, Robin Courtenay. “The lad's just arrived.”

The two gentlemen, each in his late fifties, sat in magnificent matching Hepplewhite armchairs whose seats and back cushions had been designed and embroidered by Robin himself, a distinguished craftsman who, despite his soft-spoken manner, was given to unbridled extravagance. He wore a small turban awash with bright colors, an item, Jason reported, that was all the rage in London among writers and painters.

“I knew that … when I gave it to him … last Christmas,” Piero sniffed. His high tenor voice, in contrast to Robin's deep-bottomed baritone, was strained, and he spoke in nervous spurts, with only a slight trace of an Italian accent. Piero was a short, compact man whose small frame and tight britches, complete with shiny plated buckles at the knees, gave him a much younger look. Both he and the portly, slower-speaking Courtenay sported identical shoes, pumps fashioned from green-dyed Moroccan leather.

Across from them, Colleen and Jason sat squeezed together on a petite divan. The extravagance of the room—the frescoes on the ceiling, the gold-gilded frames on the portraits on the walls, the tucked-and-pleated blue satin drapes—had rendered Colleen speechless, at least for the moment. Only a short while before, she had seen the two men greet Jason as if he were a long-lost son—with loving embraces, and, in Piero's case, tears of joy.

“'Tis a marvelous home you have here,” she complimented them. “Have you lived here long?”

“Just a century or so,” Robin joked. “It was my father's and his father's before him.”

“The decor is magnificent,” Colleen said.

“Aside from ancestral inheritances—a painting here and there,” Piero noted, “the arrangement of the furniture, flowers, and such is of my design. Robin will be the last to say so, but many of our best pieces are of his own making. His artistry extends beyond the making of mere instruments. He crafts furniture, he sews, he even weaves tapestries!”

“My friend,” Robin was quick to say, “would have you believe my talents exceed my girth. 'Tis not true. I'm a mere dabbler. You, Jason, are the true artist among us, and I yearn to hear more about your musical adventures abroad.”

“As do I,” echoed Piero. “Were it not for my duties in the kitchen, I'd gladly stay to listen. But I'm off to put the final touches on a dinner that you, Jason, and Miss McClagan simply must share with us.”

“Only if I can be of assistance,” Collen chimed in, accepting the invitation for both of them as she followed Piero from the parlor.

In the kitchen, Colleen decided that there was something warm and almost maternal about the Italian. When she and Jason had first arrived, his immediate concern had been for Jason's health, insisting, all evidence to the contrary, that the musician was far too thin.

“This is the first of only a long series of feasts that will serve to fatten up our mutual friend,” Piero gushed as he busily tended his goose, sauces, and boiling squash.

“Might I help in some way?” Colleen asked.

“There's not a thing for you to do,
angelo mio
,” he assured her. “'Tis enough for me to be able to feast my eyes upon you as I work. Spontaneity is the key to my culinary methods, and I'm afraid my infamous lack of discipline makes assistance nearly impossible.” The smells were divine, and Piero's eyes twinkled as he frequently sampled the food. “I consider cooking a noble pursuit. Within my repertory are dishes from no less than a dozen civilized lands—and some decidedly uncivilized. Would you mind passing my snuffbox? One small inhalation and I'll have my wits about me again.”

The tiny box sat on the window sill overlooking a gracious courtyard where a ring of white and pink azaleas encircled a gushing stone fountain. Colleen peered out the window and saw, extending from the second story of the stately Georgian edifice, a wrought-iron balcony twisted in the shape of twin peacocks, an appropriate symbol, she realized, for the home's inhabitants. The same peacocks had been painted in miniature on the lid of the snuffbox. Handing the container to Piero, Colleen asked him whether he and Robin were akin to the macaronis, a group of affluent young Englishmen who, some years back, formed the famed macaroni club in London and became known as the epitome of flamboyant dressers. She remembered the line from “Yankee Doodle”: “He put a feather in his cap and called it macaroni.”

“Oh, no, dear child,” Piero replied as he quickly and expertly tapped a goodly amount of the powdered tobacco on the palm of his right hand and sniffed it into each nostril. “We are part of no group or movement. We follow our own instincts and live according to our own rules.” As the snuff took its effect, he rolled his jet-black eyes toward the wood-beamed ceiling, which, even in the kitchen, had been decorated with the bodies of dancing angels and nimble cherubs.