Portrait Of A Lover

June 1879

“T hat shawl is entirely too young for her,” Aunt Millicent said as she smoothed her skirts on the train seat. “She’s turning seventy-five, after all. The color is too daring, and it’s not even fashionable. Speaking of which, why in the world did you wear that hat? It’s the worst thing I’ve ever seen. It looks like a purple haystack on your head.”

As always, Annabelle ignored her aunt’s narrow-minded taste in millinery, because she was not giving up the hat. It was satisfyingly unique.

“I suppose it suits our surroundings,” she added with a self-important, haughty tone. She glanced around the Second Class carriage, looking down her nose in repugnance at the merchants and tradesmen.

Annabelle ignored her aunt’s snobbery as well, for they’d had no choice about the traveling accommodations. First Class was full, and they couldn’t possibly wait for another train, for they were already late for Aunt Sadie’s birthday party as it was.

“The shawl is a very tasteful shade of blue, Auntie,” Annabelle replied, trying to distract Millicent from her discontent. “It’s like the sky. It will accentuate the vivid color of her eyes.”

“Her eyes do not need to be noticed in that way. Not at her age.”

Growing frustrated, for she knew Aunt Millicent wouldn’t budge about the blue shawl, Annabelle turned her gaze toward the window. They were slowing down. The train was screeching to a halt at the Leicester station to pick up passengers.

Steam spurted and hissed from the engine as a crowd gathered on the platform. Annabelle looked down and smiled at a family—a young couple standing in the shade of the station overhang with their baby in a brand new pram. The woman, wearing a fashionable green plumed hat, raised a gloved hand and waved, and Annabelle waved cheerfully in return.

“Now that is a lovely hat,” Aunt Millicent said, wagging a finger. “See how it fits in with all the others?”

Continuing to ignore her aunt’s harangue, and thinking they might be stopped for more than a few minutes, Annabelle reached into her bag for the book she’d packed. She was leaning forward, quite distracted by the inconceivable mess inside the bag—when in the world had she put a cigar cutter in there?—when the door to their carriage suddenly swung open, startling her, for she was seated right next to it. She jolted upright.

“I do beg your pardon,” a man said, stepping up and looking around the full carriage.

An elderly woman came along and entered behind him, and he helped her up, then gestured to the seats facing Annabelle and Millicent. “These appear to be the last available seats. If you don’t mind?”

Naturally, Annabelle left it to her chaperone to respond, but even if she had been the one required to reply, she wasn’t sure she would have been able to speak, for her heart was racing in her chest and her mouth felt strangely tingly inside. Because the man standing before her, removing his black overcoat right in front of her eyes was, in a word, magnificent.

The elderly woman behind him removed her coat, too, but Annabelle was only aware of the man—tall, broad-shouldered, and dark. His hair was shiny black, his eyes dark brown. He turned to face her again, and she had to struggle to keep her eyes downcast, though she did glance up briefly to observe the fine lines of his shoulders and back as he assisted the elderly woman by hanging her coat with his on a nearby hook.

Then all at once he turned and glanced down at Annabelle’s feet—his eyes lingering there for a moment.

For the first time in her life Annabelle was embarrassed by her boots. They were made for boys, and they were absolutely not fashionable, but they were so much more comfortable than ladies’ boots, especially when she spent most of her time tramping around the countryside with her easel under her arm.

She quickly drew her feet under her skirts.

When the man finally took the seat facing her, he smiled politely, first at Aunt Millicent, who was looking down her long, aristocratic nose suspiciously at him, then at Annabelle, who managed to smile casually in return.

She hoped she wasn’t blushing. That would be mortifying.

Determined not to stare, she raised her book and opened it, pretending to read. Yes, pretending, because she could hardly concentrate with such a handsome man sitting not three feet away from her, facing her squarely.

Trains could be so decidedly awkward sometimes.

The train blew its whistle and they lurched forward, rocking back and forth as the locomotive began to slowly move away from the station. Annabelle looked out the window at the young family again, and watched them through the spiraling coal dust until she couldn’t see them anymore.

Soon they were under way, the pistons hammering fast beneath them as they gained speed on the tracks.

Feeling the chugging sensation beneath the soles of her boots, Annabelle peered over the top of her book to steal another glance at the man across from her. He was gazing absently out the window, so she recalled her artist’s mantra—there is no substitute for close observation—and studied his face more meticulously.

Of course, it was pure perfection—a straight nose, a strong chiseled jaw, and high cheekbones. Yet, along with all those sharp, manly angles was a set of full, moist lips that looked quite agreeably soft.

What she wouldn’t give to paint him.

It was an odd thought, because she never painted people. She only did landscapes, preferably rugged ones, which was perhaps where this marked fascination came from. He, too, was rugged, like the jagged English coastlines that captured her imagination more than any other place or thing. She loved the sound of the sea, surging and crashing up against the rocks, and she loved to try and capture the unfathomable depths and distances that were an intrinsic part of the ocean.

She couldn’t explain it, but strangely, this man made her body feel the same way. He made her blood quicken, made her mind tick like a clock wound too tight. Just looking at him made her feel happy to be alive, when there were so many beautiful, wondrous things to comprehend.

Though of course he was not a thing. He was a man.

Just then the beautiful, wondrous man gazed directly at her, and she froze, caught in the embarrassing circumstance of ogling.

She almost panicked and lifted her book to cover her face, but that would have been childish, and she was not a child. She was twenty-one.

Instead, she smiled politely and lowered her book to her lap, lowering her gaze along with it. It was at that instant she noticed she had been reading the same page for the past ten minutes.

“Are you all going to Edinburgh?” the elderly lady asked, causing Annabelle to look up again. “I’m going to Newcastle.”

The wrinkles on the lady’s face were in happy places, at the outside of her eyes, suggesting a lifetime spent smiling.

The handsome gentleman replied, “I’m going past Edinburgh and on to Perth.”

The woman leaned closer, raising a hand to her ear. “Where?”

“Perth!”

The woman sat for a few seconds, as if trying to decipher what she’d heard, then nodded. “Oh, yes, yes! I once had an uncle in Perth.”

The handsome gentleman looked curiously at Annabelle and her aunt, waiting for them to respond to the question as well, but Aunt Millicent turned her face away, no doubt finding the exchange intrusive.

The elderly woman then turned to the gentleman beside her and began a conversation about whom she was going to visit in Edinburgh—her daughter and children—and how long she would be there, but it was a rather awkward conversation, as the woman was almost completely deaf and had to hold her hand up to her ear every time the man spoke.

The two of them were shouting by the end of it, and when they finally stopped talking, Annabelle glanced up and found herself sharing an amused grin with the handsome man.

It was not a grin at the expense of the elderly lady; they were not making fun of her. On the contrary, Annabelle recognized a look of compassion in the gentleman’s dark eyes. He, like she, was able to see the humor in life sometimes. What a dear lady, they both seemed to be saying to each other.

Afterward, Annabelle lowered her gaze to the book again, but the printed words on the page held little allure. For one thing, she was still on the same page as before, and for another, her dancing thoughts were making it difficult to make sense of the story in her brain.

This was going to be a very long trip indeed, she thought as she crossed her legs at the ankles and struggled not to look up again.

To be honest, she was afraid to, because—good God in heaven—she could sense that the intriguing man was now ogling her.

About an hour into the journey the train was chugging along at full speed across the rolling English countryside, the sun was beaming in through the windows, and Aunt Millicent’s head was beginning to nod. Millicent resisted sleep as best she could, jerking her head up every time it fell forward, but it wasn’t long before her eyes dropped closed and her mouth fell open. She tipped her head back on the upholstered seat and at last began to snore.

Annabelle noticed her aunt’s open book sliding off her lap, so she reached for it and carefully dragged it from her aunt’s limp grasp. She put the ribbon in place to mark the page and set it on the seat between them before returning to her own book.

She was just becoming absorbed in the story when she was interrupted by an unexpected question.

“Suspenseful?” the man across from her asked.

She lifted her gaze. “I beg your pardon?”

He pointed at her book.

Glancing at the other elderly lady, who was writing a letter and didn’t seem to be aware of any conversation, Annabelle paused uncertainly for a moment before replying. The man was a stranger, after all.

“My apologies,” he said after a few seconds, apparently realizing that he’d made her uncomfortable. He went back to his own book.

Annabelle immediately regretted her hesitation. She hadn’t meant to be rude. “No apologies necessary,” she said, closing her book over her finger, which she used to keep her page.

The man’s gaze met hers again, making her feel strangely giddy.

“It’s been very suspenseful,” she said. “Have you read it?” She showed him the cover.

“Can’t say that I have.” He closed his own book and set it on the seat beside him, then held out a hand. “May I?”

Annabelle passed the book to him. She noted the distance between their knees…a foot, or perhaps two at most, which gave her a rather naughty little thrill.

He flipped through her book—using his own finger to keep her page—then handed it back. “I must pick that one up. I like a good mystery.”

Gracious, he was exquisite to look at, she thought. A famous sculptor couldn’t have created anything more beautiful. She’d never seen such magnetic eyes before. How old was he? Late twenties perhaps?

Annabelle glanced down at his hand and noted he wore no wedding ring. A deep feminine element of her being rejoiced.

She noted also that his hands were large and rough-looking. He was no idle gentleman, that was certain, and the idea of his male strength and ruggedness thrilled her beyond all.

“Are you on your way somewhere, or returning home?” he asked, his voice deep, yet soft at the same time. Just the sound of it made her feel womanly.

“We’re going to my great aunt’s seventy-fifth birthday party. She lives near Newcastle. And yourself?”

“Business.” His eyes roamed over her face from the top of her head down to her chin, and it felt like a sensuous caress.

She couldn’t deny that she secretly enjoyed it, which felt rather wicked and exciting.

A short time later, Aunt Millicent was snoring like a dairy farmer, and Annabelle had relaxed significantly regarding her conversation with the gentleman seated across from her, even though she didn’t know him at all and they had not been properly introduced and he was very handsome and she was…Well…she was young and unmarried and painfully aware of his attractiveness.

“What kind of business are you in?” she boldly asked.

“I’m a clerk in a bank.”

“You live in London, I presume?”

Another bold question. Annabelle glanced prudently at her aunt. Still dead to the world, thank heavens.

“Yes. My mother is currently residing with me, and it’s just the two of us. My father passed away a number of years ago.”

“That is very good of you to care for your mother. She’s a lucky woman, to have you for a son.”

“As is your mother, to have such a lovely daughter.” He glanced at Aunt Millicent, whose mouth was still hanging open. She twitched and slapped herself on the cheek.

Annabelle grinned. “She’s my aunt, actually.”

“Ah.”

“I never knew my mother,” Annabelle blurted out, realizing too late that such a personal admission was even bolder than her earlier questions. She didn’t even know this man’s name. Yet something made her continue. Perhaps it was the transitory nature of the circumstances. She would probably never see him again after today.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said.

“She died when I was not quite a year old,” Annabelle continued, “and my father passed away a year later. So I was adopted and raised by my mother’s closest friend. They had known each other since they were children.”