Charity Begins at Home (28 page)

Partly to ease the tension, partly to cover her own confusion, she laughed lightly. "Oh, I have been too arrogant, I think, and I deserve a comeuppance."

He dropped the subject without inquiring how his jilting could be considered her comeuppance. He was trying so hard not to accuse her or blame her; she saw the effort in the tense set of his jaw. But he resumed his friendly tone as he covered the panel back up. "Well, we must demonstrate to all that we neither of us nurse hurt feelings. If we go back to our earlier relationship as if it had never been disturbed, then they will have nothing to talk about."

Charity was more versed in the ways of villagers and knew that a resumption of their friendship would cause even more talk. But his expression was so hopeful, his manner so open, that she could only agree. She worried that he, too, had been exposed to intrusive comments and friendly advice these last two days. He must have hated it all.

Impulsively she invited him back home for tea. But he only smiled and shook his head. "No, I must take my nephews home, then go back to work. I hope I haven't painted myself out for the day because I'm tired of staring at that ship painting, and I mean to finish those last touches this afternoon." He said ruefully as he opened the door for her, "Extremes of emotion are not conducive to the artistic temperament, at least not my artistic temperament. That is another reason I am endeavoring to take a rational view of all this. I feel more creative already."

She lingered there, her hand near his on the old door. No wonder he desired a peaceful home, if his artistic temperament was such a sensitive instrument, ready to flee at the least disturbance. Used to soldiering on no matter what, Charity found this attitude alien and fascinating. "It must be very trying to have such a delicate creative process so easily over-set. Surely many artists do their most impressive work under stress. Think of Michelangelo, who turned his anger at the Pope into those great frescoes. Don't you wish that you could harness emotional energy like that, instead of wasting it?"

His dark eyes glinted in amusement at her sensible observation. "You are right, of course! And surely it's all that separates me from Michelangelo, isn't it? But alas, I seem only able to waste my emotional energy in brooding and kicking walls and beating my nephews. Not very hard," he added at her startled look. "Had I no nephews, however, to waste my emotions on, perhaps I, too, would be painting the Sistine Chapel."

It seemed from his bantering tone as if he had exhausted all his anger at her. She hoped he had, especially if it affected his work. But it was lowering to know that a day was all it took to restore his equilibrium. "You are teasing me."

"Never!"

"Well, even if you are not Michelangelo, I would not like to be an impediment to your art."

"No need to worry." With a light imperative hand on her back, he urged her out the door into the misty afternoon. "I've a commitment to meet, after all, for the Midsummer painting. And so do you." At her startled glance, he added, "Don't you recall? You were going to paint the background. That middle panel is done, except for your work. Tomorrow, after you rehearse the children, I'll bring the paints you need and get you started."

"But—but—" That promise she made a fortnight ago, a lifetime ago, came back to haunt her. She had so many other things to do in the week before the fair. She couldn't take this on, too. Still, she had promised, and she had never yet gone back on a promise—or at least a promise she could keep.

Ignoring her hesitation, Tristan called to his nephews, who had been jumping with both feet into every puddle this side of the bakery. Then he whistled, and his grazing horse came trotting over from the green, tame as a dog. Swinging lithely into the saddle, he said, "I shall see you tomorrow, then."

Charity murmured something affirmative as he cantered off, promising his running nephews that he would let them win the race home. But she wondered if she could really bear to meet him to work on the painting, that constant reminder of who he was and what had passed between them. She would have to, she decided. She owed that much to the children, who were working so hard on their Midsummer play. And she owed that much to Tristan, who was being so forgiving about the wrong she had done him.

Chapter Seventeen

On Saturday the children made it almost all the way through the play without stumbling. Charity was giving them the promised glimpse of the whale triptych when the black-caped schoolmaster emerged from behind the crates in the alcove and clambered up on the stage. She took one look at the fury in his face and said, "Go on home now, children. I'll show you more tomorrow after church, if you promise not to tell any grownups!"

The children filed out solemnly, much as if they were still in Mr. Greenaway's school, several casting looks back at their angry teacher. Charity pulled the cover straight over the painted panel and turned to face him. She had been dreading the moment he learned of all she had done with his play. Better they have it out now than in front of the entire parish on Midsummer Eve.

He didn't give her a chance to greet him or to divert him. His hands balled up into fists, he advanced on her, stopping short only a few feet away. "What have you done with my play?"

She almost shot back that she had improved it, for she didn't like feeling crowded by any man. But it would do no good to anger him further. In a reasonable tone, she answered, "You told me to revise it to fit the occasion. Therefore I simplified the language so that the children could speak the lines. It was also rather long, almost three-quarters of an hour, so I cut some of the soliloquies."

"Some! You cut them all! I couldn't believe what I heard those stupid children recite! So simple, so short. My soliloquies were gone, gone! Every last line—all my lovely poetry!" His fists opened, and he turned his hands over and gazed at his palms as if somewhere in them were the lost lines.

"But at the outset, you knew this was to be performed by children. You did give me carte blanche to make what changes I deemed necessary. And I kept the structure of the story exactly the same, only I combined some of the arguments Jonah has with the sailors."

"The most polished part of all! If only you knew how I labored over that portion, you would not be so blithe!"

Charity thought that since he had written the whole play in less than a week, she had probably labored over it more than he had. She, at least, had given some consideration to performers and audience. But one glance at his tightly clenched face told her that Mr. Greenaway was not in the mood for home truths. "I've still got the original script. You must think of this as the children's version, and the original as the adult version. Think of the possibilities!"

"Possibilities! I wrote this to be performed so that I could hear my words spoken. And what did I hear? Distortion. Reduction. Corruption!"

Fury thickened his voice and tensed his shoulders, and she knew a moment's anxiety. She had seen such anger in men's eyes before, though never directed at her, and she knew it could presage violence. Unobtrusively she moved back toward the edge of the stage, closer to the open window so that, if need be, her screams could be heard.

Such precaution was probably needless. This was David Greenaway, the ineffectual schoolmaster, whom she had pitied but never feared. He was so very angry, however, and some vestige of guilt made her feel all the more vulnerable. Soothingly she said, "Well, you needn't worry, I—"

"No, don't! Don't you try that! Don't you try to manage me!" He took a step forward, clenching his fists in front of him. "You do that with everyone. Everything. You always think you know what is best for everyone. For the village, for my school—distributing those Gothic novels at the commencement ceremonies last year! Gothics! For my play! For my play!"

Something in her responded to his anguish. She reached out to him in conciliation, in apology. But he flung her hand aside. "No! I won't have you talk me out of this. I want my name off that—that travesty! I shan't be associated with it!"

"Mr. Greenaway, let's be reasonable. If you don't want to be known as the playwright, I can't insist. But—"

"And I shan't let you use my title either!"

"Jonah and the Whale?" At this, Charity's sense of the absurd got the better of her. "Well, it's hardly your title, is it? I think the Scriptures had it first."

"Don't you laugh at me! Don't you—"

As he raised his hand, she stepped back, forgetting how close she was to the edge. She felt the floor vanish under her back foot, then in that moment of blind panic heard her name and running steps.

She found herself caught up in Tristan's arms, firm and secure. "Thank you," she whispered, then, in a stronger voice, added, "I'm fine. You may put me down."

He did but kept his arm around her shoulders while she found her footing. The residue of terror seeped away as he held her. She took a deep breath and nodded to him, and then drew back closer as Mr. Greenaway dropped off the stage next to them.

She couldn't believe it, but he was still angry, and didn't moderate his tone even in the presence of another man. "You deserved that, after what you did to my work. You deserve worse. And you'll get it."

He started to shove past her, but Tristan shot out a hand to block him. "Don't threaten the lady, you cur. And don't ever,
ever
think of touching her again."

Greenaway was too angry to mind the warning and yanked himself away, in the process brushing Charity with his arm.

With lightning swiftness, Tristan grabbed him by the lapel of his scholar's cape and hauled him up. "You haven't learned your lesson, have you, schoolmaster?"

The uppercut connected smartly with Mr. Greenaway's jaw, jerking his head back and clattering his teeth together. Charity resisted the urge to cheer, especially when he picked himself off the floor and stumbled out, whispering, "You'll regret this, Charity Calder."

As the door slammed behind him, Charity tried to rearrange her face in sterner lines. "I suppose you think that was the appropriate response to this situation."

Rubbing his knuckles, Tristan grinned down at her, his dark eyes alight with triumph. "It must be, or it wouldn't have felt so good. It's all he deserves, threatening a woman. Don't worry. I won't let him near you again."

Shaking her head, she took his fist and turned it over to gently stroke one red knuckle. When the red faded to pink and finally disappeared, she dropped his hand with an exasperated laugh. "Paint! I though you might have broken your hand and ruined your career."

"A paltry sort you must think me, to break a hand on a jaw like that."

"Where did you learn to box?"

"I told you Eton was a hellish place. The Etonians took exception to my accent, you see." As he said that, she heard a slight deepening of that elusive accent. "That's all I learned in three months there—to fight." He smiled at her disbelief. "Stood me in good stead in all those fights on the docks in Naples."

As if this were an everyday encounter, he retrieved the leather bag he had dropped and began drawing out his brushes. He was so very nonchalant, fluffing the bristles up as he approached his painting, reaching out to grab up the palette he had left on the table. But he seemed brighter somehow, at least in Charity's vision. Perhaps it was only the afternoon light streaming in through the windows or the reflected glow from his eyes. But there he was, gleaming, burnished by triumph.

"Thank you," she said finally. "He frightened me."

"You didn't show it. Help me,
mia
, if you are feeling up to it. You've got a good start on the background, but there's so very much more to do. Why ever did I propose a triptych?"

He was so casual she almost missed that sweet Italian endearment, but then she realized he was trying to comfort her without alarming her. He would know that work soothed her best. She took up the blue-daubed brush he prepared for her and came to stand next to him at the painting. And after a few moments her hand stopped shaking and she was able to paint the sky instead of just making streaks on the canvas.

Only then did he move farther away to fill in the fingers of God. And only then did he mention the confrontation with Greenaway. "I take it he objected to your direction of his play."

"Yes. But you were there, weren't you, when he first gave it to me? You recall I told him that I would have to make it fit the children better."

"You did say that. And he agreed." He reached out his brush and dabbed a bit of pink on her nose, and as she laughed and tried to rub it off with a rag, he added, "Don't let him worry you. You did the best you could with it. He is typical of his sort. He thinks whatever he produces must needs be art."

She tucked the rag away into her pocket, still troubled. "But he is right, you know. I do always think I know best. I do manage things. I always have. No one's ever minded before, or at least no one has ever said so."

He stopped painting and gazed at her, then slipped an arm around her waist so that his palette was dangerously close to her muslin'd hip and his mouth was dangerously close to her ear. His tender words stirred her hair. "Charity,
cara
, you are what you are. And I for one wouldn't have you one whit less than that."

She felt his lips brush her temple and unthinking lifted her face to meet his kiss. But before their mouths met, he pulled away, laughing. "Oh, I forgot I haven't the right to do that anymore. Amazing how quickly I became accustomed to it."