Harlequin Historical November 2015, Box Set 2 of 2 (60 page)

Oh, Benedict, Benedict
, she called to him silently inside her head.
Please, help me.
His name throbbed in her brain. He would never know what she was sacrificing for him. He would always despise her.

If only she could see him, one last time. Yes, one last time, to watch as he moved the brush across the canvas in those strong stokes. One last time to remember him, the way he glanced up and down as he painted, his mouth set in a firm line until he smiled; the smile that showed he was finally satisfied with what he'd achieved. But Benedict would refuse her entry to the studio.

Her hand flew to her throat.

Bert stopped the horses. Cameo opened the carriage door and leapt. Her white satin slippers hit the cobbles and she began to run.

Chapter Twenty-One

‘And if I said that Fancy, led by Love,
Would play with flying forms and images,
Yet this is also true...'

Alfred, Lord Tennyson:
‘The Gardener's Daughter'

C
ameo dashed away from the carriage. A gust of wind caught her silk cloak and it fluttered from her shoulders, like wings. Aware of the startled looks she drew as she raced through the mass of people in the crowded streets, she didn't dare glance to see if Bert came after her, or if he had driven on, not suspecting the bride had flown. She kept running, her breath coming faster and faster as she covered ground, dodging shoppers with packages, the hawkers on the street.

‘Where are you going so fast, my pretty?' one of them called to her with a guffaw, as she sped by.

A few streets away she slowed and ducked inside the doorway of a grocer's, out of sight, panting. She couldn't stay hiding in the shop doorway. She lifted off her cloak and turned it inside out, so the telltale ivory silk was on the inside, the blue lining on the outside. It was still clearly fine, but the colour made it less obvious. She lifted her skirts and glanced at her slippers. They were scuffed, dirty with mud from her flight through the streets and barely fit for such an activity to start with.

Rapidly she scanned the street.

Across the street she spied a cab stand, where a couple of drivers were waiting for a fare. She sped over, barely missing being hit by a cart.

A driver with a wide, weather-beaten face lounged on his seat, his horse's reins slack. ‘Can you help me?'

He gave a brief nod, his round black hat falling over his eyes.

‘I need to get to the Belleview Gallery, in Soho.' Quickly she gave him the address. ‘Do you know where that is?'

‘I certainly do, miss,' he said in a reproving tone. ‘I've taken the knowledge, haven't I?'

‘The knowledge?' The phrase was new to her.

‘That's right, miss. All London cab drivers had to learn the streets of our fair city, after all the crowds what came to see the Royal Exhibition last year. Mayhem it was, with new lads thinking they can take passengers without knowing where to take 'em. So we all have to learn the knowledge now and pass the test.' He added, boasting, ‘Passed with flying colours, meself. I know my way around London. Been a driving cabs for years.'

‘I need to get there urgently,' Cameo explained. ‘I only need directions. I don't have any money for a fare.'

The man's eyes were shrewd as he pushed up his hat. ‘Matter of urgency, is it?'

So urgent was her need to see Benedict's work, if not Benedict himself, it had sent her leaping from the crested carriage. ‘Yes.'

‘In trouble?'

She gave a startled nod in reply.

The driver's look softened. ‘I've got a daughter about your age. I'd appreciate someone helping her if she needed it.' He paused and twitched the horse's reins. ‘Come along, miss, jump in. It isn't far. Let's get you to Soho.'

* * *

The cab driver tipped his hat as he drove away. ‘Good luck, miss!'

‘Goodbye and thank you,' Cameo called. His unexpected kindness touched her, made her feel less alone in the city streets, which, although she'd spent every Season of her life in London, she realised now she barely knew, so sheltered had been her life in Mayfair.
You're spoilt, Cameo.
She recalled Benedict's enraged voice again and winced. He'd said so many hurtful things to her that terrible night, things which contained sharp painful jabs of truth.

She certainly hadn't realised the Belleview Gallery existed, in this grubby street, not much more than a laneway. She turned to look at it, a scruffy establishment with peeling paint and a tattered red awning. It was more a warehouse than a gallery and most certainly lacked the prestige of the Royal Academy of Art. Another pang of guilt came over her at how she'd so adversely affected Benedict's career.

Through the window she saw there were people standing about, admiring the paintings that hung on walls on both sides of the half-brick walls.

She twisted the brass doorknob and stepped hesitantly inside. No one noticed her. A gentleman wearing pince-nez, who she guessed might be the owner of the gallery, was with a group at the rear, pointing to one of the paintings and gesturing enthusiastically, although she couldn't hear what he was saying.

Avoiding the large group, she turned to her left and went to the first painting, a small work with a simple, square, wooden frame.

A sharp breath caught in her throat. It must be Benedict's work. She recognised his brushstrokes even before she noted his bold black signature in the lower-right corner. But it wasn't just the fact that it was Benedict's work that made her clutch her cloak with a trembling hand. It was the subject.

Her eyes widened in disbelief at the portrait of her, a head study. Her own face stared out of the frame, her eyes holding a sparkle of laughter, her mouth curving in the beginning of a radiant smile. Cameo glanced at the card beneath the painting.
My Lady Laughing
, it was called.

Had she ever looked like that, felt like that? It seemed impossible she had ever experienced such an obvious moment of joy, especially now, with despair her familiar shadow. She must have shown that part of herself to Benedict, in those lost, magical moments of happiness.

She moved to the next painting and gasped. This, too, was her portrait, painted in Benedict's own indefinable style. A large work; he'd captured her absolutely. This time in profile, depicted seated, she curved over a table, clutching a stick of charcoal. Cameo recalled how he'd seen her sketching in his studio. The memory must have been imprinted perfectly in his artist's brain. Looking at it was almost like being back in the studio. Her gaze went again to the card beneath the carved picture frame.
My Lady Drawing
, this portrait was named.

Next was the largest painting in the room, a full-sized life study. There she stood, as she must have looked when she'd first met Benedict, in her simple grey dress with the ivory buttons, her black-and-white cameo at her neck and her hair pulled into a bun. In spite of her simple attire, she witnessed for the first time how haughty she could appear, with her chin tilted and her head high. She also discerned the vulnerability, the loneliness in her eyes that Benedict had captured, a lost look, of being alone and misunderstood. He'd recognised that in her and balanced it with her haughtiness, making her whole.

She checked the card below.
My Lady Posing.
The title brought something between a sob and a laugh to her lips. It wasn't only a reference to her posing for Benedict as a model, of course, but also to her posing as the mythical Miss Ashe.

Dazed, Cameo moved on to the next painting. This time she cried out aloud. Her own face and figure were again depicted with such skill she felt awed. Her eyes were closed, her head thrown against the golden brocade of the chaise longue, her hair tumbling, revealing her neck as the stem of a flower, her emerald-green taffeta dress ruffled. It appeared so real she almost blushed, remembering his lips on her skin after that taffeta dress was removed. What had he called it? She alone knew the double meaning of the title
My Lady Lying
.

She went on to the next painting, and to the next. It couldn't be true. Every single one of Benedict Cole's paintings was of Cameo, each capturing a different mood, expression or activity. Every precious moment from the weeks they'd spent together had been frozen in time. There were too many to take in.
My Lady Reading
had her with her head buried in a book, while
My Lady in the Park
showed her sitting primly on a Hyde Park bench, while yet another,
My Lady Fury
, showed her clearly fuming with rage, as on that last terrible night she'd seen him at the studio, when he'd discovered her identity.

There, too, was
The Gardener's Daughter
, the painting which had caused so much trouble. A smile stretched her lips. So he had showed it after all. She might have suspected that an artist as strong-minded as Benedict Cole wouldn't let polite society tell him what he could and could not paint and whether he had permission to show it. Relief flooded her to see the portrait intact. In her worst moments she'd imagined him hurling it into the fire.

It felt strange seeing the portrait again. It was even more beautiful than she remembered, the carved frame with its ash buds, leaves and flowers, the fine way he'd painted the green leaves of the ash tree and its slender grey trunk and boughs, the delicate petals of the daffodils, bluebells and snowdrops at her feet, each blade of grass a tender pointed shoot. She appreciated once again his attention to nature in the Pre-Raphaelite style, the truth he captured by it. And the way he'd painted her—she saw even more clearly now the care he'd layered through the paint, how accurately he portrayed her in the filmy white dress—in truth her chemise, she recalled with a blush—her black hair over her shoulders, her eyes that vivid pansy shade. It was more powerful than staring into the looking glass, for he'd gone deeper, into her soul.

The loss of him tore her heart. At least she'd had those days with him in the studio, seen him create this work, she comforted herself, blinking away tears. At least she still had that night.

At the rear of the room, where the other viewers were gathered, she waited until a woman wearing a large purple bonnet stepped aside.

The painting here seemed to stop her heart. Smaller than the rest, a miniature, the wooden oval frame contained a small cameo carved in wooden relief at its top. Immediately inside the frame, on a velvety-black background, the words
A miniature of loveliness, all grace
were painted in gold, curling calligraphy. She knew that phrase, she recalled with wonder. It came from ‘The Gardener's Daughter', too.

Within the curved quotation, Benedict had painted another oval shape resembling a brooch. It had a gold rim to it, in finely wrought detail. It appeared so real she almost reached out to clasp it. In the centre of the oval he'd depicted her partly in profile. Her shoulders were bare and around her neck, on its black-velvet ribbon, hung her cameo necklace: a cameo within a cameo.
My Lady: Cameo Portrait
,
she read below, her eyes brimming with tears.

Her mind awhirl, she moved into the centre of the gallery and surveyed the exhibition as a whole, trying to take it all in. The effect in its entirety stunned her. There were close to a dozen portraits in all, including the pencil sketches. She'd never imagined the whole exhibition to be Benedict's work, let alone an exhibition entirely made up of portraits of her. How had he done it? His brilliance stunned her as she recognised his talent anew, a talent that could never be destroyed. He must have painted night and day to produce works of such extraordinary power and beauty. What did it mean? He'd dedicated an entire exhibition to her.

The woman in the purple bonnet nudged her neighbour.

‘That's the model,' Cameo heard her mutter.

‘It is you, isn't it, miss?'

She came out of her trance. ‘Yes, it's me. But I didn't know the artist had painted all these.' She waved around the gallery.

‘You didn't know.' The woman shook her bonnet in disbelief. ‘Well, he certainly knows you.'

Cameo nodded, dazed. ‘Yes, he does.'

Across the room a man she guessed to be the owner of the gallery had pricked up his ears and began to bear down on her, as through his pince-nez his eyes gleamed with recognition. ‘Excuse me...'

Cameo couldn't speak to the owner, not at that moment. She couldn't speak to anyone, just then. Her cloak swirling around her, she rushed out of the gallery and straight into a man coming through the door.

Cameo steadied herself on the door frame.

Benedict stood on the street in his long coat, his red-paisley cravat tied loosely at his strong throat. She'd forgotten how tall he was, how he towered over her, how his presence filled the air around him. But his dark brown hair, with that wayward lock over his brow, and his black, searching eyes, glowing with a fierce inner light as they raked her face and body—no, she hadn't forgotten those.

He, too, had fallen silent.

‘I've...' She stepped out into the street. The gallery door slammed behind her. ‘I've been looking at the paintings.'

It wasn't what she meant to say as the words tumbled from her lips.

‘Now you know.' Benedict cupped Cameo's face, his thumbs caressing her cheeks. ‘I cannot paint without seeing your face.'

Colour burst inside Cameo's head as Benedict's lips met hers; his kiss was a blaze of passion that told her all she needed. It told her he had longed for her, as she had longed for him, each moment, each hour. It told her every day apart had been a torment to his soul. It told her she was his, for ever.

‘I knew you'd come.' His voice was husky. ‘I've been waiting for you.'

Revelling in his familiar smell, Cameo leaned against his broad chest. ‘I thought I'd never see you again.'

He tossed an ironic laugh into the air as his fingers tangled gently in her hair. ‘Whereas you were all I could see. I couldn't hold you as I yearned to, except in my dreams, and when I awoke, you were gone. All I could do was paint.'

‘You're tired.' His face seemed thinner, quite haggard, with a pallor suggesting he hadn't seen sun and air for many days, and dark stubble lining his jaw. ‘You've been working too hard.'

‘My intention was to paint you out of my system. That formed my plan. But it didn't work. As soon as I finished one portrait, another image of you would come to me, and I began another. Painting you—it didn't feel as if I had any choice in the matter.'

She glanced through the gallery window. ‘The results are beautiful.'

His lip curved. ‘So you approve of the paintings?'