The Rebel (36 page)

“May I come up?” she asked softly.

“I assume she has not returned.”

She shook her head and climbed the stairs.
Alexandra wished she could be the bearer of good news, but other
than just wanting to be here with him, she was at a loss as to how
she could help.

At the top of the stairs, she paused, not
trying to hide her awe at the display of Jane’s work. Unlike the
first time that she’d been here, when everything had been hidden
beneath covers, nearly every painting was now arranged for viewing,
and the space was ablaze with the light of dozens of candles. If
she overlooked the rough and inadequate finish of the room, she
could easily imagine that she was in one of the finest galleries in
Europe.

“So much talent,” she murmured. “I am so
glad she has decided at least to display her work up here.”

Nicholas had moved to the opposite end of
the room and did not respond, if he heard her. She watched him
uncovering another canvas and looking carefully at it, before
placing it against a wall with others that were similar in color
and theme. Alexandra realized he was the one who’d taken it on
himself to uncover her incredible gift. She picked up a candle from
one of the tables.

“She is so prolific a painter.” She admired
the sheer amount of work. There was much here that she hadn’t seen
on that first day. “I never had a chance to speak to Jane about
coming here and looking at more of her work. I hope she doesn’t
mind…”

The words died in Alexandra throat as she
heard a low curse. Nicholas was crouched down before a canvas he’d
just uncovered. She wanted to go to him and see for herself what
had affected him so. She held back, though, silent as death while
her son sat for what seemed like eternity.

Alexandra remembered her own reaction to the
canvases Jane had painted of the seasons’ passage and the
destruction of an Irish village. Finally, she could wait no longer
and broke the silence.

“If someone were to convince Jane…to tell
her about the genius so apparent in her work. If someone were to
convey to her the powerful sense of reality she depicts in every
painting. The balance, the structure, the coloring, the use of
light and shadow. All of these things. Perhaps these paintings
could provide a new beginning for her somewhere beyond of the walls
of Woodfield House.”

He remained engrossed in the work.

“This family does not deserve her. They have
no appreciation for the person and the artist she is.” She
whispered her feelings. “These paintings must be shown at the Royal
Academy in London. Or, if not, on the continent then.”

Alexandra didn’t know how far the
relationship between Nicholas and Jane had progressed. Though she
was sure the beginnings were there, she had no way of knowing their
level of commitment to each other. Understanding her own son’s
independent and rebellious nature, she could not pressure him or
ask his intentions, but at the same time she decided to explain the
plans that had gradually been developing in her mind for most of
this week.

“I should like to invite Jane to come back
to England with us. From there, if she wants, she can come back
with me to Brussels.” There was no reaction to her words, and
Alexandra slowly approached Nicholas. “I think she should be
introduced into the top artistic circles at Court. I am certain
that Sir Joshua Reynolds, your neighbor in Leicester Square would
love to take her under his wing. He is a powerful force at the
Royal Academy. He is also tremendously jealous of other
portraitists, of course, but I have great confidence in her work
and know that he and others will see her genius. After a lifetime
of receiving no encouragement here, she could use some genuine
praise…”

A gasp escaped her as she glanced over
Nicholas’s shoulder at the canvas in his hand. Her candle
flickered, and she dashed a tear from her face.

The small canvas portrayed five bodies
hanging from gibbets in a town square. The background of faces in
the crowd and the buildings framing the scene were only muted
brushstrokes—an effect that highlighted the shocking reality of
those who’d been executed. Their condition cried out from the
canvas. It was obvious this was a work that had been completed much
earlier than anything else that Alexandra had seen, but still Jane
had managed to capture the tragic emotion of the scene with power
and style.

“I have asked her to marry me.”

Nicholas’s voice drew her gaze to his solemn
profile.

“I believe she was frightened by the
offer—and perhaps by my persistence. I should have given her time
to become accustomed to the idea before pressuring her. Now I have
driven her away.” His fingers touched the three-quarter view of the
man’s body hanging in the foreground. “He has been dead for nine
years, and she is still in love with him.”

“Devoted to him,” Alexandra gently
corrected. “And she will always have a sense of loss when she
thinks of him. But I am certain she thinks of him less now than she
did then. And that does not mean she is incapable of loving
again.”

He rose to his feet, and she saw the doubt
clouding his features.

“We must remember that life has not been
kind to her,” she continued. “She has been alone—held responsible
for a scandalous act from such an early age. Regardless of how she
feels for you, she undoubtedly sees so many obstacles that stand
between the two of you.”

“Damn her reputation and everyone else
here.”

“You can afford to ignore society’s view of
your life and future. You are a man, first of all, and you have
intentionally worked at establishing a reputation for recklessness.
As far as the
ton
is concerned, once you do settle, they
will recall your roguish ways only as youthful wildness. But Jane
knows nothing of how your society works. All she knows is that you
were reputable enough to be considered the ideal husband for her
sister, but now you are interested in her.” She followed him when
he moved away. “If she were any other woman, she would have jumped
at your offer. Clara would have jumped at it. But not Jane.”

“She might at least tell me how she
feels…then I will know what is to be done.”

“But she is.” She placed a hand on
Nicholas’s arm. “Nick, you have all the blind stubbornness of your
sex. Can you not see? In her own way, she
is
showing you her
love by running away. She doesn’t want to ruin your reputation by
linking you with her…”

“Ha!” he laughed bitterly. “I have thought
about what she should have to bear because of
me
!”

“But don’t you see? She values you more than
she does her own future and happiness.” Her hand made a sweeping
motion over the paintings in the room. “Look at this place—at all
of this work. These paintings are a window to this woman’s soul.
The compassion with which she paints these canvases is the heart of
the woman herself. And yet, what does she do with this talent? She
hides it in an attic. She covers it with cloth. She brings no
attention to herself or her gifts.” She met her son’s burning gaze.
“You have a great challenge ahead of you, Nick, but you are the man
to handle it.”

“How?”

His question tugged at her heart. It had
been a long while since he’d asked her advice on anything.

“You must be here for her. You cannot give
up. You must try to understand the motives behind each of her
actions…the same way that you try to understand the message behind
each of these paintings.” She placed the candle on the worktable.
“It will all work out. You two were made for each other. Just make
her see it. Prove it to her.”

As Alexandra descended the stairs and made
her way back to her room, she knew the biggest challenge still lay
with her. If these two were to have any chance of finding a future,
she had to locate Jane now and bring her back.

***

The village, peacefully perched on a curl of
Backwater River, erupted not an hour after sunset in an explosion
of activity. They were coming.

The western sky still glowed with the last
shreds of orange and red when a half dozen masked Whiteboys came
silently out of the darkness on foot, led by a single rider dressed
all in black—but for the white smock of the Shanavests. The news
swept through the village like the wind, and each cottage sprang to
life as the inhabitants roused themselves.

The entire village was to feel the blade of
the King’s justice for their history of helping Shanavests. Indeed,
the dragoons were coming.

Disbelief quickly faded as panic chilled
their souls. The villagers knew what their fate would be if they
didn’t escape. They’d heard of the barbarism that had been
inflicted on other towns larger than their own. The horrors were
nearly unspeakable.

Now was not the time for packing the
treasures of a lifetime. Now was not the time to tarry at all. They
were coming, and the shock of the news quickly gave way to
action.

The poorer villagers—those with less to part
with—were the first to start down the river road to the place where
the bog land offered the best protection. They could all hide there
for weeks, if need be, deep in the marshes that flooded each spring
with the rising of the river. If the dragoons decided to leave
their horses at the edges of the murky swamps and follow, then the
villagers would push beyond, leaving the bogs in the dead of a
moonless night, climbing into the hills, and making their way to
the south.

But where would they go then, they wondered
as they gathered their children and the few belongings that they
could carry. Where?

The torches of a hundred mounted men lit up
the road on the far side of the river. As the leader of the
Shanavests ushered the last and more resistant of the fugitives
along, the raiders closed to within a league or two of the deserted
village. Looking back, the mounted Shanavest saw the advance riders
reach the village bridge, and it was only a moment later that the
screams began to cut through the night.

“Old Rohane’s cottage,” someone from the
group gasped.

“I went to their door, but there was no one
inside,” another man explained.

“They are not with us,” a voice from the
dark called out.

“My wee Kevin is with them, too,” a woman
cried.

Egan touched another member of Shanavests on
the shoulder. “Move them on. I’ll go back for those missing.”

Without paying any heed to the man’s
immediate objection, Egan spurred Mab back toward the village. The
main body of dragoons was still minutes away, and the screams that
now were recognizable to be that of a woman were continuing. They
seemed to be coming from the livery stable sitting on the riverbank
by the bridge itself. Drawing her pistol from her belt, she
dismounted in the shadows of the next building and ran toward the
building.

When she pulled open the heavy door, the
acrid smell of smoke greeted her. Panicky livestock pressed to
escape through the same opening. Egan pushed her way through them
and stepped into the smoky darkness.

The first cold flash of fear clawed at her
when she realized the cries of the woman actually were retreating
from her. She felt her way quickly across the stable floor and saw
two people slip out the door leading to the smith’s forge. She
reached the door in seconds, only to find it already barred from
the outside.

She could no longer hear a cry for help and
a sickening chill crept up her spine. She sensed the presence of
others in the stable. It was a trap.

Egan whirled around and saw soldiers coming
out of every corner of the darkened stable. Pistols and swords
glinted dully in the dim light. She could hear more outside, and
she knew that the dragoons across the river would be here in a
moment. Once they surrounded the building completely…

Someone doused a burning blanket in a corner
near the door that she had used to enter. Another one shouted to
others outside.

“We have him. We have Egan.”

She pressed her back against the barred door
and looked frantically about for any means of escape. Someone with
a torch came in at the door to her left.

Pointing her pistol at one and then another
of the steadily closing circle, she realized her only route of
escape lay in shooting one and then trying to run through the dozen
drawn weapons. Not a very good plan, she thought, considering that
there were probably quite a few more waiting outside.

Egan drew her dagger with the other hand.
She would kill first before they took her down. She took a step
toward the approaching group.

“The magistrate’s order,” someone shouted,
coming in the far end of the stable with another lantern. “Take him
alive. He must be taken alive.”

The distraction was all Egan needed, and she
leaped into action. As she charged the two men farthest to her
left, she spotted a rope hanging from the high rafters and leading
to a loft. Perhaps if she could just get from there to…to
where?

Screaming Gaelic curses as she attacked, she
delivered a sharp kick to the first one’s groin, whirling and
slashing at the hand of the man holding the torch. He cried out in
anger and shock, but the torch fell to the ground, and Egan leaped
past him as the dry straw immediately crackled and caught fire
beneath her feet.

Tucking the pistol into her belt, she jumped
at the rope and climbed a couple of feet. The shouts were echoing
around her and she felt a soldier’s hand grab her boot. Before he
could drag her down, she managed to draw her pistol and fire. The
man screamed and fell back as the bullet struck his foot. Someone
else already had a grip on her neck, but she swung the pistol hard,
striking him across the face and knocking him into several soldiers
behind him.

The flames were spreading fast around their
feet now, and the soldiers were in total disarray. Seizing her
chance, Egan climbed the rope as quickly as she could, expecting a
bullet to end her escape at any moment. Her mask and hat were
dangling down her back, but she didn’t pause or look back. Instead,
she pulled herself hand over hand until she could clamber into the
loft.