Follow My Lead (49 page)

BOOK: Follow My Lead

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“You are an absolute idiot,” Jason said to the door, his breath coming in great gulps from walking briskly through the streets, even at times breaking into a run—and from the unexpected task of yelling through a door. But it was glorious. His blood running through his body, certain for the first time in six months of his actions.

Except . . . he still was entirely uncertain of what he was to say.

And so . . . he decided, right before his fist hit the door, to simply say everything.

“That’s right, I called you an idiot. For all your ability to analyze paintings, and write treatises about your thoughts, and convince innkeepers to let us have a cut of the profits to put on a show, you are an absolute idiot.” Jason paced, swiveling back and forth on Totty’s small stoop. “You’re an idiot for thinking you could write someone out of your story. That you could write me out of your memory. I’m always going to be there, whether you admit it or not. And you are always going to think of your time in Nuremberg and Vienna, and it is entangled with mine. Those are my cities, their memory belongs to me.

“But the brilliant thing is, I’m an absolute idiot, too—in thinking I could come back to England and forget you. You and I made the same mistake, thinking we could put each other in the past. I thought time would put you there, but then I saw you tonight . . . and you are not in my past. And I know I am not in yours. Do you want to know how I know?” Jason smirked. “Because you made one mistake. You slipped up, Winn. You said you would not include me in your book,
if I didn’t want to be
. Now, you said it was because it would wreak havoc on my life if you did, but you never mentioned your life. It would cause absolute madness in your life, destroy your reputation. But if I had said I wanted to be included, you would do it. You would have let the madness come. Because you want me there.

“Yes, you do want me in your life. All your protestations of an independent nature are for naught. But what’s more, you
need
me in your life. You need someone who knows just how seriously you take your work. You need someone who will remind you to come to bed, and carry you there when you fall asleep over your papers. You need someone to think you’re beautiful when you have pencils sticking out of your hair. You need someone who will travel with you to the ends of the earth, but also give you a place to call home. You need someone to tease you and show you how to give it back, because you have about thirty years of catching up to do in that department.”

In the periphery of his vision, Jason could see lights being lit in all the little houses along Bloomsbury Street, the curiosity of the neighbors winning over their desire to sleep. Everyone watching the Duke of Rayne declare his heart to the door of Mrs. Tottendale’s house. The snow fell harder now, Jason’s breath coming out white, a slight shiver threatening to overcome him. But his body was too full of everything—of hope, fear, wine, dread, exhilaration—to pay it much mind.

“And . . . and I need you. I need you to make my life . . . unpredictable. It’s remarkably predictable being a Duke. I need you to remind me of my responsibilities, but once that’s done, be willing to follow my lead into mischief. Or I’ll follow yours. I need your passion. I needed to see the look on your face when you saw the Mediterranean, and I missed it. I wanted it so badly. And I need you to smile at me at least once a day. When you smile you look like you know everything in the world, do you realize that?”

Jason came to a standstill, facing the door head on. He opened his arms wide, everything inside of him wholly exposed and vulnerable.

“So, I’m calling your bluff, Winn. I want to be included in your story. I want to be in your life. And the madness that will come with it,” Jason said. “I am here, and if you couldn’t tell, I love you. All three parts of it. I know you’re afraid. But if you feel the same . . . hell, if you feel a fraction of what I do, then . . . then all you have to do is open the door and let me in. Please, Winn. Just . . . just open the door.”

Jason grew silent, his speech made, and now . . . now, all he had to do was wait for the answer.

On the other side of the door, Winn had not moved. Had not even dared to draw breath. Every word, every syllable Jason uttered had pierced her skin like an arrow. And now she stood there, bleeding, somehow lost in Totty’s small foyer, her hand gripping the pedestal of the staircase to keep her from falling.

The voice from the outside had stopped, but she could tell he hadn’t moved from his position. He was waiting for an answer.

“I don’t know what do,” she breathed. Finally moving some small part of her body, she reached her hand out and grabbed on to Totty’s, holding on with all of her might. Totty squeezed back.

“What do you wish to do?” she asked gently.

“I . . . I worked so hard. To gain my independence. And I
just
received it. It is all I ever wanted.”

“Do you still want it?” Totty questioned.

“Yes!” Winn cried, the emotions she had bottled up ever since walking through the door of Lord Forrester’s earlier that evening finally spilling over her cheeks. “But . . . I
missed
him. More than I thought possible.”

And she had. She had missed him when she found the little apartment she rented in Paris. She wanted to turn to him and exclaim how it was barely the size of Wurtzer’s loft, but it would be home. When she saw a painting of Adam and Eve in the Louvre, she wanted to ask him if he thought it was better or worse than the one by Sister Maria that had carried them across the Continent. And that moment, when she saw the Mediterranean for the first time . . .

“He is right about one thing.” Totty shook her head. “You are an idiot.”

Winn looked to her then, confused.

“Independence does not mean being alone. Independence means you have the right to make your own choices.” Totty smiled. “And you seem to have a choice before you.”

Winn breathed in, for the first time in minutes. Her gaze betraying her as it found its way back to the door.
All you have to do is open the door . . .
he had said.
If you feel a fraction of what I do . . .

“What would you do?” Winn asked finally, her resolve crumbling.

“It’s not my decision to make.” Totty shrugged. “But I would ask . . . do you love him?” Totty let go of Winn’s hand, patting it, and turning up the steps. “Answer that, and the rest will come easily.”

Seconds ticked by on the freezing stoop of Totty’s little house on Bloomsbury Street. Jason waited still, out of arguments, the cold forcing him to flip the collar of his evening coat up, forcing his hands into his pockets. But his eyes never strayed from the door.

Minutes. Minutes had passed, Jason waiting breathlessly. Minutes, and the door had not opened. And as more time passed, a feeling fell through him, down past the pit of his stomach, past his knees and the soles of his feet, bleeding out onto quiet, rapt Bloomsbury Street.

She wasn’t coming.

Jason had no illusions that she hadn’t heard him. The entire street had.

So, this was the end of it all, he thought. His soul laid bare to a wooden door, only to receive no answer. He tried to laugh, but his body would not allow it. Could not move, frozen, numb. In fact, the only part of him that could move was his feet. And so, he looked to his boots, let them turn away and take the first step down to the street.

That was the moment he heard it.

The tumbling of a lock. The creak of a hinge. And a wedge of light from behind him fell onto his path.

Because that was the moment that, in the quiet of a winter night, on a little street in the middle of London, a breath was taken, and a choice was made.

Winn opened the door.

And let him inside.

Dear Reader,

Writing historical fiction is a balancing act. One always wants to be as true to life as possible while respecting that certain things cannot be altered. I couldn’t have a story where Buckingham Palace was on the moon, for instance (well, I could, but that’s a whole other genre). Therefore, what one ends up with is an amalgam of historical fact and, when research fails to yield what the story needs, plausible fiction.

The Society of Historical Art and Architecture of the Known World is my fictitious version of one of England’s learned societies, such as the Royal Society, founded 1660 (which focuses on the sciences) and the Society of Antiquaries of London, founded 1717 (which focuses on art and artifacts). Both societies were housed in the early nineteenth century at Somerset House, London, so I decided the Historical Society should have its rooms there as well. Both the Royal and the Society of Antiquaries exist today, although they are now housed at Carlton House Terrace, London, and Burlington House, Piccadilly, respectively.

Like both the Royal and the Society of Antiquaries, the Historical Society’s fellows had to be elected by existing members to join. However, my fictitious Historical Society outpaced its factual cousins in one respect: The London Society of Antiquaries did not allow for the admittance of women as members until 1921, and the Royal Society did not admit women until 1945.

Albrecht Dürer (1471-1528) is considered one of the preeminent masters of the Northern Renaissance. His paintings, engravings, printworks and woodcuttings grace the walls of museums worldwide, including the Louvre. In his early twenties, Dürer travelled to Basel, Switzerland, to study woodcutting and perfect his technique. While he travelled extensively across Europe in his life—to Italy, where he did some of the first watercolor landscapes in art history, and to Brussels, where he painted the portrait of King Christian II—he lived most of his life in Nuremberg.

Albrecht Dürer has always been a popular artist, but in the early nineteenth century, his popularity was reaching new heights. In 1828, the city of Nuremberg held a Dürer Jubilee on the three-hundreth anniversary of his death. Obtaining a painting ascribed to Dürer would have been a coup for an organization such as the Historical Society.

To my knowledge, there is no correspondence in existence between Dürer and a nun named Maria F. She, and her Adam and Eve painting, are of my own invention.

Albrecht Dürer’s house in Nuremberg still stands. Today it is a museum and a testament to his life’s work, and the life of a German Renaissance artist. It was purchased by the city of Nuremberg in 1825 (some sources site the date of purchase as 1828). Previous to that, it was privately owned and had fallen into disrepair. In
Follow My Lead
, Herr Heider, a Dürer enthusiast, has purchased the house and is attempting to rehabilitate it. Herr and Frau Heider are of my own invention, as is Herr Heider’s collection of Dürer letters and papers.

While these histories, and several others (including the history of Oxford University, the topography of southern Germany, and the presence of the Franciscan Order of the Poor Clares in Austria) have influenced and helped shape the story of Miss Winnifred Crane and the Duke of Rayne’s mad journey across Europe, in the end, it really is Winn and Jason’s story. And I certainly hope you enjoyed reading about this mismatched pair as much as I did writing about them.

Sincerely,
Kate Noble