The Duke of Shadows (15 page)

Pray God Emma had been so lucky.

He turned away from Lindley and began to walk back the way he'd come. He was not as strong as Emma. When the tears came, he could not check them.

Emma had taken no interest in it. As the coach jerked forward again, she had spotted a man crouched a little ways off, his shoulders wrapped in a gray blanket stamped
The Lady Danforth Relief Fund.
He was laboring over the pavement with a piece of chalk, trying to repair the damage the crowd had done to his drawing. It was a passable rendering of the head of Napoleon, subtitled with a clumsy scrawl: I AM STARVING. So, she had thought, here was London's first lesson to her. She was not the only one who survived through art.

She might have thrown him a penny, but it was a passing impulse. And the window was bolted shut.

Back into the murk. Over cobblestones and granite setts the fog spread, subsuming buildings, warping sound. Here and there came the glow of gas lamps, disembodied haloes that loomed from nowhere. A carriage rumbled by, unseen; traces jingled, a whip cracked. Now a sudden ball of red light, and another and another, bobbing wildly—and a cry distorted by the fog, so it seemed at one moment to come from right at the window, and then abruptly from a great distance: "Links! Links for a sixpence!"

Across the bench, her cousin was pressing a handkerchief to her mouth to filter the air. Emma watched her for a moment. Then, experimentally, she drew a breath through her mouth. The air tasted thick and burnt, and it seemed to take on weight at the back of her throat, a bitter clot that could not be swallowed. She did not know why anyone would choose to live in this city, but perhaps there was something to it. Breathing felt like choking here. And since one could not go without air, there was no choice in it, which made it comfortable. She pulled in an even deeper breath. Yes, there was no respite for it but to submit. Then it grew easier.

"You will make yourself sick," her cousin said.

She turned back to the window. She was not in charity with Delphinia. The question of the paintings loomed between them.
Burn them if you like:
that was what she'd said a year ago. Or was it two now? Perhaps she had not meant it; she hadn't been well, at the time. But certainly she had told Delphinia never to show them to anyone.

How merry this coming interview would be.
Indeed, sir, yes. This painting is of a charming scene I beheld whilst in India. It made me scream at the time, but my fears were unfounded; I did not die by the man's hand, he was killed first. Here is another, of a moment in Alwar which has lingered with me particularly. I am so pleased you find my technique commendable. Had I not experimented with the Italian style, I would not have been able to furnish the depth and vividness required by the subject. I would not have been able to finish
it,
and instead
it
would have remained inside my head, and perhaps if you wished to interview me, you would have had to call at Bedlam, or someplace like it—but nicer, I expect. I could afford better.

"All right," Delphinia said. "We are here, coz."

"Perhaps you are melancholy," Delphinia said more sharply.

The temptation to remain silent was powerful, but in this matter alone she could not taunt her cousin. Delphinia had witnessed some very black moods in the last few years, and she had borne them without complaint. "Not at all," said Emma. "And not for some time, so there is no need to worry on that account."

"Are you vexed with me, then?"

Her steps paused as she considered the question. She did not know what exactly was in her: anger, or nerves, or exhaustion. But that did not surprise. Her mind had something in common with the fog outside; what she ought to feel often came to her in unrecognizable forms. With another shrug, she said, "If I am vexed, there is good cause."

Delphinia shot to her feet. On someone larger, the effect might have been impressive. But Delphinia was as petite and pink-cheeked as a china doll. "It is bad of you to hound me for it, Emma! You know I'm already feeling quite guilty."

"And so you should," she said wearily. "I gave you those paintings on the express understanding that you would not show them to anyone."

"But I didn't mean to!" Delphinia cast a glance to the door. "I had them hung in the green salon, and you know that
no one
ever goes in the green salon except family, but then Gideon gets on so
well
with Lord Lockwood, and so I received him there, and—yes, he
saw
them, Emma. And he fell in love with them! He said they were
beautiful!"

"I would watch out for him then. He is clearly perverted."

Delphinia wrinkled her nose. "Yes, I did think it a
bit
odd. But do you know what I thought then?"

"I cannot imagine. I hadn't realized you had thoughts so very frequently."

"I thought, why, the Earl of Lockwood is famous for finding new talent! If he showed your paintings at his next ball, he could make you the talk of the town!"

"The target of the town, more like." Emma resumed her pacing. "Delphinia, you know I intend to make a name for myself." It was all she planned for, really. "But these paintings are not the way to do it."

"Well, what other paintings have you got?"

Dear coz. As subtle as an ax. "I
will
have more. That is the point. After I come back from Italy—"

"I don't understand why you need to travel so far to learn to paint more pleasantly."

"After
I come back, I'll have work fit to show. But if my name has already been ruined by these paintings, no one will be receptive."

"Which is why I told Lockwood he cannot reveal your identity." With a pleased smile, Delphinia retook her seat. "Now do sit, Emma, and have some tea. It's oolong, perfectly lovely."

A sudden thought arrested her. "Your story has changed, Delphinia! In the letter, you said Lord Chad showed Lockwood the paintings while in his cups."

"Oh. Did I? Well, you know how confused I can be—"

"You are not this jejune." Emma felt suddenly lightheaded. She lowered herself into a Queen Anne chair. "Tell the truth. You deliberately showed them to him!"

Delphinia's eyes fell to her teacup, which she was turning around and around in her hands. "Really, coz. Your theory casts me in a very unflattering light."

She shook her head. Even a year ago, this would have destroyed her. "Confess," she said grimly. "They say it is good for the soul."

Delphinia looked up. "They also say blood is thicker than water. Or a small promise broken. Is it?"

"It was not a small promise. Not at the time. You have no idea!"

"No, I do not, for you will not
explain
to me! You never have done!"

Emma looked away, to the fire. She would like to explain. She had often pondered doing so. But where to begin? Avignon, perhaps. Some months after her return. "You
must
get out of Durringham, coz. You are
frightening
me." And so she had faced the water again, and landed in a world of summer beauty. She had tried so hard in Avignon, so hard to be content with flowers. She had piled her palette so full of lavenders and greens that she'd dreamt of choking on the colors.

She would have gone mad had she stayed there.

And so back to Gemson Park, for another one of her fits. Feverish weeks closeted in that small studio, where the sunlight itself, streaming though the windows, seemed ironical—such a cheerful illumination for the growing darkness on the canvas, the oils she corrupted into scenes that would scare a child from his sleep tor months.

When it was over, she had wanted them away from her.
What an idiot I was.
Imagining that she was done with it. There had always been more to paint, in those first couple of years.

One painting,
one,
without blood. She had started it during that miserable voyage homeward. It had been her sanity when the waves grew restive, when they had leapt up against the porthole as though calling her back to them. But she had never completed it. She had painted his expression to show love and hope and faith, and once on land, when the enormity of her mistake became clear, she could not figure out how to undo it. She did not look upon it now. She did not think of it.

Prettier scenes were the order of the day. She had several paintings started. Little girls, village celebrations, winter landscapes. And they were, she thought, terrible. Lifeless. Perhaps
she
was the one whose nature was perverted. Surely it was an aberrant talent that excelled only at depicting violence.

"I am sorry," Delphinia whispered. "I thought it for the best. Can you forgive me?"

What else was there to do? She pressed her lips together and nodded.

"Ah!" Brightening, Delphinia retrieved her teacup and leaned forward. "Very well, then, yes, I showed him the paintings. Something had to be done to pry you out of that hole! You've been hiding there for too long—"

"I was not hiding, I was painting. It is what artists
do."

"It was a compulsion," Emma corrected quietly.

"Hmmph. Did you not always say as a girl that you wanted to be a famous artist?"

"Famous, you note, not notorious."

"Really, Emma, you must take a chance when it is offered. I know you're afraid of running into Marcus—"

Emma was surprised into a laugh. "That toady? Don't be absurd."

"New titles." Delphinia rolled her eyes. "So gauche. And broke to boot, if you believe the gossip; he gambles terribly. But you needn't worry. Lockwood can't stand pretension. I'm sure the Viscount won't even be at the ball!"

Emma shut her eyes. Her cousin spoke as if it were already decided. "Delphinia, those paintings aren't—pleasant. The idea of presenting them at a
ball
seems perfectly mad."

"Allow me to disagree, Miss Martin."

She rose in unison with her cousin. "We did not hear you enter," Delphinia said.

Lord Lockwood bowed. "I am sorry to have kept you waiting. Countess, looking lovely as ever." He lifted Delphinia's hand to his lips before turning his attention to Emma.

"My lord." She extended her hand. He was remarkably handsome, somewhere in his mid-thirties, with sun-striped brown hair and striking amber eyes. They ran over her very thoroughly. He put her somewhat in mind of a tiger, sizing up his prey.

"Miss Martin." He offered her a wide smile. "If I look discomposed, it is because I did not expect you to be so young."

In fact, he did not look discomposed, and she suspected all at once that he rarely found himself so. "My cousin said she had told you—"

"Of course she did. But if you'll permit the observation, your paintings reflect a certain degree of … experience … which I find impossible to reconcile with your lovely face." He bared his teeth in another smile. This one had a wild, uncaged quality that made her uneasy. She wondered what it was that he saw in her work—if her paintings disturbed him or, God forbid, excited him.

He seemed to sense her discomfort, taking a step back and—perhaps she was imagining it—toning down his effect. "Forgive me for overhearing," he continued, "but I must say, I believe a ball is
exactly
the place to display your work. When I saw them, it came to me that
here
are the things we tend to forget in this cloistered little world of ours. The things that make life worth living, worth fighting for. Indeed, the things that make evil worth fighting
against.
I wish to remind society of it, if you'll allow me."

An odd speech, but delivered very smoothly. Had she not been watching so closely, she might have missed the way his hands fisted as he spoke. "You feel very strongly about them, Lord Lockwood. Do they speak to you personally?"

"How could they not?"

"They are very violent," she said bluntly.

"So is the world."

"That may be. But I do not believe they are the best way to begin a career. And forgive me if I sound ambitious, but a career is my aim."

"I admire your aim. I plan to help you realize it."

"I am flattered to hear it. Perhaps, then, you would care to see other work—work in progress. Paintings more suited to display."

He considered her for a moment. "Let me show you how I've arranged them. Perhaps that will answer your concerns."

She would have put an end to the farce then and there. But she was thrown off by a growing sense of familiarity with him. Strange; she knew she had never met him before. "Very well," she said slowly, curious to see if she could work out whom he reminded her of. "But I must warn you, I don't think I'll be swayed."

He inclined his head. "If you'll follow me."

They trailed him out of the salon and across the oak-paneled floors of the ballroom. The adjoining gallery was high-ceilinged, long and narrow. He gestured to the walls. Her paintings had been arranged expertly. Each occupied the precise amount of space needed to create its own impact without distracting from the next. Turning around and around, staring at works she had never seen save in the harsh light of her studio or the amber tones of Delphinia's gaslit salon, Emma experienced a visceral thrill. It was close to fear, but felt more like … awe.

These were
real.
Dark, dynamic. Each figure within was caught in a precariously balanced moment in time, twisting in the exquisite heights of emotion: bloodlust, terror, agony, exultation. She wrapped her arms around herself. She had been possessed by these images.
These memories.
And yet here they were—apart, separate from her. Mounted on a wall, with no sign that her blood and tears had ever had anything to do with them.

"You have a genius," Lord Lockwood murmured, as Delphinia drifted on down the gallery.

So strange to hear him say this, and to know it, for once, to be truth. To feel it as such. Not nightmares, not some sickness of the mind, but art. Why, why could she not realize this mastery in her lighter work?

He spoke again. "I must ask, the lines at the bottom of these—do they have significance? Are they messages of some sort? I have puzzled over them."

She might have said, They are evidence and admission of my sin. I killed the man who first wrote them, you see. "The Countess calls them 'unintelligible captions to scenes of incomprehensible horror.'" She slanted him a glance. "You will find that my cousin is never short of words, or theories."

"As theories go, it's rather a good one. Do you subscribe to it, Miss Martin?"

"I am only the artist; I leave the intellectual exercises to others."

"Somehow I doubt that. These works are the products of an athletic mind."

She smiled. "All the same, I cannot show them. They are—good, yes. For what they are. But they are also…" She shook her head. "Not for display."

"So you believe that art is meant only to be decorative?"

He could not have picked a more precise rejoinder. She bit her lip. "Let us be frank, sir. They would think me mad."

"I admit I am surprised to find you remarkably sane. But there you have it. It was a demon who held your eyes open, and an angel who gave you the strength to bear what you must witness."

"You should not make poetry of it."

"Then what use is art, Miss Martin? Should we paint only country scenes?"

She glanced back to the paintings. "I would like to paint something happier. I have started to do so." She decided suddenly to continue with honesty. "Unfortunately, it seems I can't manage it with nearly the same skill."

"Perhaps you must first surrender these," he said gently. "Once they belong to the world, their claim on you may weaken."

Still she hesitated. "They would not thank me for showing their war heroes thus."

"And that is exactly why you
must
show these. No one else will do so." His voice dropped, for her ears alone. "So few have justice. So few have the means to exact it. These scenes deserve to be witnessed."

Ah. Something in his tone made it clear to her suddenly: what she had recognized in him was a quality in herself. The gravity imparted by suffering—and perhaps, she thought, the wildness as well. "You know these," she said softly. "You understand."

"I do," he said. "And such is the power of your art, so will all of London. Those who have the souls left to see it, anyhow."

Delphinia came sweeping back down the hall. "Marvelous!" she cried. "Isn't she a genius, Lockwood? I have been thinking of pseudonyms—what say you to Aurora Ashdown? It has a certain ring, does it not?"

"I have not agreed," Emma protested. But she could feel herself being converted. She had already felt that it was time for a change. This was not the form she had envisioned for it, but a delay in her travels would not be hard to arrange. And besides, if she meant to be done with the past—truly done with it—then a prolonged visit to London should not unnerve her. Indeed, she should be most indifferent to the prospect of running into … reminders, of that other time. "And no one will know it is I?"

"Not from my lips," Lockwood said.

"Or mine," Delphinia added. "Oh, do not look at me so, Emma; this time I do mean to keep my promise."

"And you are offering to become my patron," she pressed Lockwood. "To facilitate showings, when I produce other work that interests you."

He bowed.

"Splendid," said Delphinia. "It's settled, then. I tell you, Emma, London will love you! They will be shocked, and so they will love you."

"They will certainly love to hate me. Or the unfortunate Miss Ashdown."

"Ah, but isn't that even more rewarding?" the Earl said, almost to himself. "Love is so fleeting, but hate never dies."

If they had not already shared that small moment, she would have been seized by the most inexplicable urge to step back as he smiled up at the wall.