The Midnight Man. Charlotte MedeЧитать онлайн книгу.
And artists. But even they were now abed.
Breathing hard, she resumed her hellbent run, her lungs absorbing the lingering aromas from the cheap eating houses that dotted the area and scented the gritty air. She rounded a puddle of slop and tore away from the square, scanning the horizon. Turning right, she made for another street that she knew would take her farther uphill and away from the shackles that awaited her at Madame Congais’s.
Finally, she allowed herself to slow, attending to the rhythm of her feet and the more measured beat of her heart. Chest heaving, she spared one more glance over her shoulder before turning abruptly into a mews, all former carriage houses, lined up like chess pieces in the dark. Adjusting her eyes to the gloom after the relatively well-lit streets, she counted three entryways before knocking softly on the fourth.
Answer, please answer. Helena adjusted her cloak, shook out the folds, and smoothed her hair, desperately hoping that she didn’t look like a wild thing. Then the door opened.
She flung herself into a bony chest and a pair of long arms, unable to hold herself back, her sense of relief spilling from every pore. “Thank God, you’re in, Horace. Thank God, you’re in,” she breathed, looking up into the kind eyes of the older man.
Without asking questions, he pulled her inside, shutting the door firmly behind them. Holding her quaking shoulders, he examined her face closely. “What is it, my dear? What’s happened now?”
Helena forced herself to straighten away from him, gathering her remaining strength around her like tattered rags. “I’m so sorry to disturb you, Horace,” she said, struggling to regain a semblance of composure. Despite her mad flight, she felt gripped by a strange chill that had taken over her body since her escape from Madame Congais’s. She regarded the rumpled man in his late forties, his sparse brown hair hiding a balding pate, with something like hope. His eyes were a generous warm brown.
“I could think of nowhere else to turn,” she said simply.
Horace Webb studied her quizzically, a frown marking his high brow, before gesturing her to take a seat by the hearth where a few embers still burned. The low-beamed room of what was formerly a stable was rustic, furnished in chintz and paisley for comfort rather than fashion, and ringed with canvases in various states of completion. For once Helena’s gaze did not linger on the images that crowded the small parlor.
Horace was still fully dressed, his waistcoat hanging open, but there was no sign of his mistress. Sitting down before the fire, her cloak billowing around her, she felt her heart slowing. “I apologize for this rash intrusion, but I was counting on the fact that you often work late into the evenings,” she rambled, reminding herself that this was her old friend who had supported her through many battles, despite his own often tumultuous personal life. “I’m sure Perdita has already retired for the night.”
“You’re in trouble,” Horace said bluntly, already pouring her tea from an earthenware pot that stood on the low table between them. “And, yes, Perdita has already retired.”
“When am I not?” Helena took the cup, relieved that her hands weren’t shaking, and sipped the tepid liquid gratefully.
Webb ran his palms down the front of his waistcoat, his features pinched and drawn. The silence between them was thick with memories, a shared past that had more shadows than either cared to acknowledge.
Webb would never forget the day he’d first met the rash young woman who was the daughter of a wealthy city merchant and who would proceed, in the coming years, to upend every last convention held dear to society. Six mornings a week, Burlington Gardens in London was invaded by a group of girls weighed down with portfolios, cases of drawing materials, and in one particular instance, overweening ambition. Already a member of the Royal Academy, he’d spied Helena setting up her easel on the dew-wet grass, a powerful landscape inexorably and inexplicably taking shape under her young hands. It was a portent of things to come and, sure enough, her talent had rapidly outstripped his own.
“You refuse to learn, don’t you, Helena?” Memories and resignation laced his tone. He remained standing, one hand in the embroidered pocket of his waistcoat. “Your willfulness has never been productive.”
Helena set down her tea, the porcelain clattering. She knew exactly to what he was referring, a continuing sore point between them. “Even if I hadn’t enrolled in the Royal Academy, my father would still have married me off to Hartford.” A well of sadness shone from her eyes even though her voice was emptied of emotion. “He wanted the title, and the old duke wanted my money.”
“It was not the worse misalliance, surely. You might have compromised, taken private lessons, confined yourself to water colors and rubbed along well enough with the old duke.”
Helena shook her head, feeling weary, silently and reluctantly acknowledging the Webb family connection with the duchy of Hartford. As with her late husband, Horace’s background was far more illustrious than hers, but however much she depended on him for his personal friendship, she could not understand the duplicitous life he continued to live, seemingly without emotional repercussions or societal censure. Married to Isabelle, with whom he shared four children, he maintained a separate household with Perdita only two miles down the road but a world away.
“Men have an easier time of it, managing to be upstanding gentlemen and wayward bohemians simultaneously.” She directed her words and irony to the smoking embers of the fireplace before returning to look at him directly, compelled to make her argument heard for at least the hundredth time. “And as you well know, I was one of the first female students who qualified when the Royal Academy Schools began accepting women. I couldn’t turn my back on the opportunity, not just for what it represented for me, but for what it represented for my sex.”
Horace sighed heavily. “I don’t deny you that opportunity, my dear. You know how much I admire and have supported you in your artistic endeavors. It’s simply that you continue to draw attention to yourself unnecessarily.” He winced when he recalled the first study she presented to the judges of the academy. It was audacious, an affront, a deliberate assault on the classical standards set by the establishment. And this at a time when female students were confined to drawing from the antique, followed by a slow progression to still life and then onward to the draped female model. “I’ve only ever wanted to help you,” he said with a stab of anguish.
Helena’s expression softened. “I know, dear Horace, and you can’t realize how much I’ve come to rely upon you to preserve my sanity in these past few years.”
Webb grimaced at her unfortunate choice of words. To mask his growing anxiety, he walked over to an easel and adjusted a drop cloth to cover the image of a pleasant drawing room scene. Helena had raged inconsolably the day her father had terminated her studies at the academy and had locked her in her rooms for a fortnight. When she emerged, dry-eyed and resolute, he had promptly married her off to a man who was more than twice her age and whose expectations for wifely behavior were set in the Middle Ages.
“I thought your life might become more peaceable once the duke had passed away.”
Helena hesitated for a moment, then rose to join him at the easel. “You know it didn’t.” They didn’t talk about her outrageous behavior, her flagrant taking of lovers, her shocking, incomprehensible work, and the fortune she was intent on giving away. “And that’s why I’m here. Just for a short time to collect myself before I return to my atelier.”
Webb looked at her silently, and an understanding born of a shared obsession burned between them.
Helena lifted her chin. She never was good at keeping secrets from him because there had never been any need. “The constabulary appeared at Madame Congais’s tonight. Looking for me,” she said brusquely.
He froze. “So it’s come to this…. What were you thinking, going to Congais’s?”
“I wasn’t thinking.”
“You never do.”
“I just wanted to escape.” She gestured to the canvas on the easel. “I haven’t been able to draw,