Though things were easier between us, I chose to leave Art and find a sanctuary for myself in some deserted place, rather than reconsider his invitation to have my old room back. Ironically, there was no need for me to depart Ring at all, though I must appear to do so. When one is utterly helpless for hours at a time, one becomes very anxious in regard to securing complete privacy.
As the servants were all long abed, Art ushered me down to the front door himself. He offered the use of his dog cart and horse, but I declined, saying I wanted to stretch my legs. He saw me off, standing in the doorway for a long time, as though still not quite believing I was back and reluctant to lose sight of me. But the curve of the drive took me away, and when that happened I struck off west over the property, heading for that stand of fir trees.
My bag was where I'd left it, not that I was too worried it would walk off on its own. That retrieved, I turned my steps toward that old deserted stables in the near distance.
The place was in a very bad state, with the roof bearing more holes than slate shingles. The brick walls were fairly solid, as was the stone floor. At one time it must have served very well as shelter, but not now. I found a possible sanctuary in an isolated corner stall. The roof over this part of the building would shield me from the sun, but it chafed not having a proper door to close. Suppose some playful child should chance across my inert body during the course of the day, or worse, one of Art's servants? A quick investigation of the hayloft also proved futile. The rotted wood floor there would not support my weight, and it was open to the sky. No, I would have to seek shelter elsewhere.
I returned to the fir stand by the main house and waited, hidden by the black shadows, going over in my mind all I'd said this evening. It had been rough, but now I felt I'd done the right thing by coming back. Art had been in a poorly state and now, hopefully, was past it, and I'd kept my pledge to Dracula, maintaining the fiction of his death. Back in Transylvania I'd promised him my silence, but hadn't been all that specific about keeping away from my friends. That was some sharp hairsplitting on my part, I know, but damn it all, I'd missed them and given the choice I'd do it the same way again.
The lights in Art's study had been turned down. A half-hour later—I timed it by the quarter chimes of a distant church bell—I felt it safe enough to return to the house, again going in by means of the study window.
The fire had died out and all was dim and silent but for the usual creaks of an old house. I listened most carefully and decided that Art had turned in for the night.
Vanishing, I flowed under the study door, partially re-forming on the other side. From there I floated down the long hall, my feet inches above the floor, truly looking like a ghost, albeit one in an Inverness and cap, clutching his bag like a misplaced traveler. At the far end were stairs, which I ascended. The upper areas were servants' quarters. I meant to go higher still, but could not recall where the attic stairway was; Ring was quite huge, and Art had shown me the way only once years back on a search for some forgotten relic. I'd been impressed that so large an area topped the house and that it was unused except for storage.
"I suppose we'll have to clean it out someday," he'd said, "but there's no need for the time being." Though the household was large, the lower floors were more than sufficient for their wants.
Giving up on finding the stairs, I vanished fully again and drifted upward, encountering the vague resistance of the ceiling and pushing into it. Such a disturbing feeling it was to pass oneself through a solid object. I cannot say that it was pleasant or unpleasant, only that I felt better once I was done.
Solid again, I found myself in a very dark, dusty chamber. Light filtered in by way of some narrow windows, but not much of it. The attic was divided up into a series of small rooms that opened one upon another. Long ago, servant girls made their miserable homes here, taking what rest they could in the winter cold and summer heat. I suppose they had it better than most of their class back then, but I couldn't help but feel sorry for them.
Some of their furnishings remained along with the cast off flotsam and jetsam of the house: narrow little beds, too short for my frame and no mattresses. Those had likely been removed to keep mice from nesting within. Well, I'd had worse accommodations.
I consulted my Bradshaw's Guide to make sure of the train schedules. Once awake, an easy walk would get me to the station in plenty of time to catch the last train for London. Excellent.
After a little quiet searching, I found a suitable closet-like berth bereft of windows that would serve. I shut its one door and blocked it with a heavy old trunk to further insure the preservation of my privacy. Of course, I was quite without light of any kind until I fumbled out matches and a candle from one of my pockets. I'd still not yet lost my distaste for utter darkness and took much comfort from the tiny yellow flame.
I put the candle on the trunk lid, settled in on a bare floor with the valise for a pillow, and amused myself for the remaining hours until dawn with a copy of last December's Strand Magazine borrowed from the hotel's reading room. To my delight it had a Sherlock Holmes story in it. I had ever been a great admirer of his adventures. What a bitter disappointment to discover that this, "The Final Problem," truly was final. For all the terrible things I'd been through in recent times I was quite aggrieved to read of the awful end of Sherlock Holmes. He'd gone as a hero, yet was he still gone. Unlike me, he would not be returning. I felt cheated. Damnation, but I wanted to write to that Conan Doyle fellow and give him a piece of my mind. There was no reason for it that I could see. Why did he do it?
I still had that righteous anger, or at least irritation, in my head when I woke the next night in thick blackness. In one hand I had a match, in the other the stub of the candle. Both had remained firm within my grasp through the whole of the day, for I never moved during my rest. In an instant I'd struck the match and lighted the candle, hardly before my eyes had fully opened. Childish, I know, but let anyone waken as I did that first night with a blanket swathing his face and wolves milling around and confess himself unafraid of the dark, and I'll take my hat off to him in humble admiration.
The house was more active at this earlier hour, but I made my escape with no one the wiser for it, using one of the attic windows. Hunger plucked at me this night, so I made my invisible way to the stables. Art had quite a collection of fine horses, including a matched pair for his carriage and several big hunters he'd brought from Ireland for the foxing season. I had to be careful, as the stable lads lived just above their charges, but it was dinner time and most were up at the house with their noses in their own kind of feedbag.
Since that first reluctant lesson with Dracula peering over my shoulder, I'd gotten better at drawing off blood, teaching myself to be neat and fast. Most of the time the animal just didn't notice, but I'd also learned to size up which were more likely to hold for me latching onto one of their veins with my mouth. Picking out a dozing hunter I saw to my needs quicker than Dixie and got clear, feeling much refreshed for it.
My return to London was just as uneventful, though anticipation of seeing Bertrice again made the journey seem longer. I hoped that the two busy days since the party would have softened the oddness of the fortune-telling incident in her memory. Tonight I would do my best to make her forget it—not by any hypnotic means—but by being as amusing as possible in the tale of my meeting with her brother. Perhaps that would redeem me in her eyes, and she would continue to allow me to pursue my acquaintance with her.
After a stop at my hotel to change clothes and otherwise prepare myself, I strolled to the music hall, this time without any encounters with would-be robbers. I could hope my "suggestions" to the hapless couple to find another kind of work had taken root. At any event, they were not lurking in the alley tonight.
With a different audience for company I watched the various entertainments again, joining in when there was a sing-along and marveling anew at the cleverness of the trained animal acts. With more appreciation than ever, I once more enjoyed the dueling scene from Hamlet and applauded until my hands stung. My, but Bertrice was wonderful to watch. This time I fully indulged myself in admiration for her legs, and all the rest of her. She cut a very trim figure, even in a doublet and waving a sword around.
During this, I heard some derogatory whispering from a few people. Seems they didn't approve of an all-girl troupe of players. One of the men opined that he thought the lot of them were the sort of women who preferred the company of other women. I'd never heard of such a thing back in Texas—coming to England had done wonders in certain areas of my worldly education. I had given some thought to that possibility, but did not consider the notion to apply to Bertrice in particular. Her manner at the party led me to understand that she very much welcomed the company of men, she was just particular about who she allowed to get close. From the story that Wyndon Price had related, I could not blame the lady one bit for being cautious. In fact, I heartily approved of her wariness, for the world is full of knaves.
Now, if I could but convince her I was not one of them.
After the Hamlet scene was done, I went out and around to the stage door, there to gather with the hopeful johnnies and wait. One of them recognized me from the other night and asked how I'd fared with "Miz 'Amlet."
I thought it was no business of his and let him know—in the politest possible terms, of course.
"Har! 'E 'ad 'er all right!" the man crowed. He had liberally fortified himself against the cold from a flask he carried.
"Sir, the lady is a lady and deserving of a gentleman's respect. Being drunk you seem unable to grasp that, so I would recommend you make yourself scarce."
"Drunk, am I?"
"Indeed, else I should be pleased to defend the lady's honor by punching your nose out the other side of your face for your insult. As you are in no condition to defend yourself, I will allow you a chance to leave."
"Damn Yankee toff!"
I expected a set-to, having met his type countless times before in my travels. The fighting words are always the same no matter what the language, and a fool is always a fool no matter what the country. This one charged forward ready to grapple, but I easily stepped to the side so all he encountered was the unforgiving brick wall of the theater. He turned in time to avoid smashing his face, but his shoulder hit hard. That put him in an even more unpleasant humor.
A few of his comrades then decided to help him out. Things got very warm and busy for the next few minutes as we traded swings and blows. There was a shrill whistling somewhere above us by the backstage door.
I kicked a backside, put a fist into a belly, and sent my original attacker reeling toward the alley entrance—straight into the arms of a very large, red-faced constable.
" 'Er, now! Wot's all this then?" he demanded, though it was very obvious what was going on. Holding his captive by the scruff of his neck like a cat with a kitten, he glared at me as a possible source of the trouble. The rest of the johnnies broke off their fighting.
I quickly put my clothing in order and retrieved my hat from where it had fallen. "It's nothing, officer, just a little roughhousing and high spirits."
He gave a mighty sniff of his man. "Hit's spirits, roit enuff. I fink you'd best come along wif me, sir, an' we'll sort it out at the station."
The unfairness stung. "But I cannot leave, I'm waiting for someone!"
"You may wait at the station, come along naow."
I looked around for support, but the johnnies had all fled. Only the doorman remained, still clutching the whistle he'd used to summon the law. I appealed to him. "Sir, tell this officer that the fight was none of my doing."
"Would if I could, but I didn't see 'ow it started, only 'ow it ended."
Damnation. "I was here just the other night. Miss Wood will vouch for me."
"I'll let 'er know where you are, then. 'Ave a good e'n." And he went back inside the theater, apparently having forgotten the consideration he'd originally collected from me or that I could be the source for more of the same.
"Roit along, sir," said the constable, pleasantly. "This way."
"Very well." I sighed and went quietly, biding my time until we reached the sidewalk and were under a gaslight. "There's just one thing, officer . . ."
"Naow nonsense, sir."
"Of course not, but I seem to have something in my eye. Please have a look, as it is paining me."
Being no fool, he must have sensed I was up to no good, for he dropped one hand to the truncheon on his belt, perhaps anticipating a physical attack.
"I must ask that you listen to me for just a moment . . ." I began, staring hard to reach his mind. As he was stony sober and I was annoyed, this did not take long. The slight pain between my eyes was nothing to the satisfaction I got when he marched onward with no memory of me at all, only his oblivious, drunken captive in tow.
My satisfaction lasted until I turned toward the music hall and all but collided with Bertrice. She was in her walking clothes, her cape thrown over one shoulder as though she'd not had time to put it on. She held a furled umbrella ready in her hand like her stage sword. "Mr. Morris," she said, guardedly. "How nice to see you again. What was your business with that constable?"
She was back to using my last name again. Drat. "Just a minor misunderstanding." How long had she been there? How much had she seen?
"He was cooperating with you most wonderfully. Hanging on your every word, in fact."
"I can be persuasive when necessary, miss."
"Above and beyond the call of necessity, it would seem."
"It's nothing."
"If you say so. The doorman said I'd be in court all night because of you, so I came to the rescue. How nice that you took care of things yourself."
She was willing to rescue me? My heart lifted. "I appreciate your willingness to help, Miss Bertrice. May I thank you by offering you a late dinner?"
"Yes," she said after a moment of watching the still-retreating officer. She handed me her umbrella for a moment as she unshouldered her cape and gracefully wrapped up in it. "You may."
She knew of a nearby pub that catered to the theatrical crowd and guided us there. Several of her cronies from the hall had already taken it over and tossed familial greetings at her while giving me a look-see as we picked out a table. It was a big, jostling, friendly place, but seemed to have no separate area for ladies, and I remarked on it to her.
"They do during the day, when ladies are out and about, but at this hour there's little point," she said. "Those of us in the business, for the most part, are all one together, male and female. This pub understands that and allows for it, though many may see our innocent camaraderie as scandalous. Those on the outside don't always understand and make assumptions that theaters are dens of iniquity. Some of them are, I'm sure, but I've yet to encounter one. As with any little society it is the sins of a few outstanding failures who paint the picture for the rest of us. Hence we have the larger world assuming that all actors are drunken buffoons and all actresses are prostitutes."
"I've never thought that."
"I'm glad to hear it. You can imagine that having such a stigma attached to this profession causes its members to become even more insular to themselves, thus increasing the mystery, thus increasing the dark rumors. The more one denies them, the more people believe them to be true. Yet for all that condemnation, the crowds still come to see us perform."
"Hopefully the experience will enrich them. I certainly felt such again tonight. You were in fine form up there, if you don't mind hearing me say so."
"One never grows tired of sincere praise."
I was about to heap on more of it for her, but a waiter came to take our order. Bertrice asked for sausages, eggs, and an ale. I settled for a half pint of the latter.
"You're not hungry?" she asked.
"I ate earlier." The stink of cooked food was bad, but if I kept her talking then I had no need to breathe. "Have the shows been going well for you?"
"Very well, indeed. No one threw rotten vegetables at us, and the catcalls were not so loud that we couldn't speak our lines over them. But never mind that, tell me about Arthur. How did your Lazarus impersonation go over?"
I narrated a highly expurgated version of the truth, adding in as much humorous comment as I could, wishing to lighten what had been a most serious situation. "He was in quite a state, and it would be hard to say which of us was the more shaken, him seeing me again or me rushing to catch him before he fainted."
"He fainted?" This alarmed her.
"Not quite, but he was dozy for a moment or two from the shock. Poor fellow thought me to be a ghost for awhile, but a little brandy and pinching on my arm put him right again soon enough."
"Good. How I wish I could have been there. Arthur's a strong man, but lately I've been worried for his health. He's not been the same since . . . since last summer."
"No one of us has been. It was a terrible ordeal."
"I didn't know Lucy all that well, but she struck me as being a very sweet, loving girl."
"She was that and more."
"Just what did take her away? Arthur never said anything specific."
I hesitated, not knowing how much to relate. "Jack Seward said it was some kind of pernicious anemia. He dressed it up in a lot of medical words, but I think it had something to do with her blood not being right. You'll have to get him to explain it properly."
"I will. You never told me the circumstances of how he and Dr. Seward came to think you were dead in the first place."
The waiter brought our ales just then and offered her and then me a curious stare before hastening away.
"We were on a hunting trip—"
"Where?"
"Transylvania."
"Where on earth is that?"
"Eastern side of Europe; it's pretty out of the way."
"Sounds it. What were you hunting?"
"Wolves."
"Did you shoot any?"
"We took one big fellow before being attacked by some local bandits."
"What? Arthur in the middle of a fight?"
Damn, perhaps I should have expurgated this story as well, even if it was made up. "We were all in the middle of it, but the size of our party told in our favor and the bandits soon retreated. I fear I got caught up in the excitement and gave chase when I should have stayed with the rest. We became so far separated that I lost my way. Then—and I hate to admit it as I regard myself as a good rider—my horse threw me."
"Heavens."
"That's what I think happened. I'm sure I struck my head when I landed, my memory is very thin on that part. I woke at night, stiff and cold and surrounded by wolves."
Her eyes went wide. "You're joking! Wolves?"
"The very pack we were hunting. They had a mind to return the favor upon my person, but I managed to fight them off, then this old hermit came to my rescue . . ."
From that point my story was the same as the one I'd given her brother, but without the vampire element. Bertrice was hard pressed to believe any of it, which said a lot to me about her sharpness of perception. I wouldn't have easily believed me, either, but the truth was much too fantastical.
"Well, Art and Jack found my horse running loose, but not me. They spent more than a month scouring the area for sign of me or my body, and had I been there to be found I might be telling you a different story now. But the hermit's lodgings were some miles distance, and I'd gotten feverish, so we none of us ever hooked up. Assuming the bandits or the wolves had killed me they went home—for which I don't blame them one bit, as I'd have done the same. It was the worst of the winter by then and they were close to perishing themselves from the cold. By the time I got back to civilization I was surprised to discover I'd been declared dead by my friends. I didn't know if I should be horrified or laugh my head off."
"One is allowed to do both."
"I reckon I did. I stayed in Paris awhile straightening out the mess, then finally ended up in London, in need of some music hall amusement spoken in English. You know the rest."
Her food had come during the telling of my tale, but she'd hardly touched it. She was spellbound, and it felt mighty good to have captured her attention so well.
"That's quite amazing," she said. "You should write it up and post it to a magazine catering to adventure stories."
"Oh, it's not good enough for that. Besides, I'd have to dress it more fancy and put in a villain and a chest of treasure for everyone to find."
"Don't forget to include a lost princess to rescue and restore to her throne and at least one duel to the death atop the castle turret."
"Of course." I smiled, basking in the spark that now lighted her eyes. She seemed to be relaxed with me again, the other night's incident forgotten.
"What was Arthur's reaction to all this?" she asked.
"He held a view similar to yours, but tempered by his memories of the experience. We spent most of the night yarning about the whole thing. I will say that I agree with you about him looking poorly, as I almost didn't know him. He's gotten so thin and pale. Has Jack not noticed the change?"
"I don't know. He's never there when I chance to drop in."
"I shall have words with him, then. Maybe we can persuade Art to come out of his lair now. He seemed much improved in spirits when I left."
"Thank God for that. I'm glad you've returned." She made a move as though to put her hand on mine, but instead drew back and picked up her forgotten fork. "I'd best eat this before it's too cold to enjoy. Tell me about Paris. It's been some years since my last visit. Do they still have that awful tower up in the Champ-de-Mars?"
"They do, and they may be keeping it. Seems people like the view from it, even if they don't care to look at the tower itself."
"It is such a pretentious thing and quite ugly, all that bare metal, like a skeleton."
"Kinda grows on you though. I didn't know it until I went there, but that Eiffel fellow also did the frame for our own Liberty Statue in New York, so I suppose his tower can't be all bad."
"So speaks an American." She gave me a mock toast with her glass of ale.
"And a Texan. We were a separate country before hitching up with the United States, you know. There's some say we should have passed the honor and just kept to ourselves."
"Just how big is Texas for it to have been a whole country?"
That stumped me and I said as much. "Might as well ask how big is the sky. You could drop a hundred cities the size of London into Texas and lose 'em faster than a penny at a sideshow for all the space we've got to spread 'em around in."
"My! I've heard Arthur speak of our holdings there, but I had no idea."
"There is plenty of room for a man to stretch and not find his limit, but it's not for everyone. We've a story of how the devil came to Texas to live but gave up and moved back to hell a few days later because the heat got to be too much for him."
"Our cold English climate must be a trial for you, then."
"The winters are a caution, but for all the places I've traveled, it comes up pretty even with the rest of the world. Maybe you get more rain than an Indian monsoon, but it sure makes for a green and pleasant land."
"You're most kind, Mr. Quincey."
I felt like a ring-tailed fool. I was sitting across from this wonderful, beautiful woman with a laugh sweet as a nightingale's song, and here we were talking about the damned weather. She was back to my first name again, though, which was good, but I wanted to get that spark in her green eyes to burn even brighter. "When I was in Paris I was able to see some of their theatricals . . ."
That helped, touching on one of her enthusiasms. "Yes, what are they doing there, these days?"
"Some of it was a bit above me. They seem to like the brooding, philosophical stuff with people looking at each other and not saying much. My preferences are for a lot of yelling, fighting, and laughing. I like to see an actor work for his applause and enjoy the work."
"The Shakespeare is definitely to your taste. He has something for everyone."
"Indeed, though I've not seen all that much of what you would call proper theater, but I do like watching actors who know their business."
"What a pity you cannot come to our matinee and see the whole play. Is there not some way you can forgo your business for a few hours?"
"It's impossible. I very much regret that it must be so."
"As do I." She sounded like she really meant it. "My company will eventually secure an evening performance. I'm sure of it."
"I certainly hope so."
"By then it might be a different play. What think you of an all-female version of MacBeth?"
"It is beyond my poor imagination, but I'm sure you'll do just as fine a job on it as you're doing on this one."
"We try. You have a most liberal attitude. Most who hear of us treat the company as though we were a gaggle of giddy schoolgirls out on a lark, not serious actresses. Some accuse us of being `adventuresses,' a fine word that has fallen in its meaning. It once stood for a brave woman out to make her way alone in the world, not unlike the male hero of many a fairy tale. Now it would seem all adventuresses are women of questionable repute if not low morals."
"I would never think that, Miss Bertrice. Anyone with eyes can see you are a lady through and through."
"But that is my point. It should not matter if a woman is a `lady,' for the strict standards of such are those burdened onto her by a highly judgmental society. She must adhere to each of them or be an outcast. But standards are more lax and forgiving in regards to a `gentleman.' So long as he pays his gambling debts and doesn't beat his wife in public he may plunge himself into all manner of iniquity and be admired for it."
I had to laugh. "You've hit the nail on that. Why don't you write it up for The Times?"
"I have until they're weary of hearing from me. I'd join with the suffragettes, but apparently actresses and artists are rather too shady for them. Hence, they are themselves still carrying the burden of societal judgment, when they should cast away such trifles and unite with all their sisters in the quest for freedom."
"You'd make a rare speech writer."
"Or barrister. I have a mind to play Portia someday, which is as close as I'll get to it. Between the acting and my painting I'm busy from morning to midnight so I've no time to study for the bar. Which reminds me—" She consulted a small watch pinned like a brooch to the lapel of her velvet jacket. "Heavens. I'd no idea how late it was. You've not even touched your ale."
"I must not be thirsty. It's gone flat anyway. No matter. May I escort you home?"
"Yes," she said, gathering up her cape and umbrella. "You may."
This time I was quick enough to pay for the cab fare.
Her studio, as she referred to it, also served as her lodgings, and frequently a rehearsal hall for the Ring Players. The neighborhood was on the seedy side, not wholly decrepit, but neither did it appear to be especially safe for an unescorted lady at night. Bertrice must have read my expression, for she smiled as we walked the few steps to her door.
"I'm perfectly able to defend myself, Mr. Quincey. Those fencing moves I do on stage are based on real training. Hours of it, as it is a passion of mine."
"All well and good, if you have a sword."
"But I do." She did something to the handle of her furled umbrella and drew forth a long, wicked-sharp blade that threw out gleams caught from the distant gaslights.
"But what if your opponent has a pistol?"
"Then I am prepared for that as well." She neatly sheathed the sword blade and from her jacket pocket produced a very handy little two-shot derringer. "There. As you see I am well able to defend myself against most calamities. And should the odds be very ill against me I have my most effective line of defense to employ at the first sign of danger."
"Which is—?"
"I run like the devil and scream `fire' at the top of my lungs. Few people will respond to a call for help, but everyone pays attention to an alarm for fire."
She was a devil herself, and I liked her for it. "Well, I'm most glad to see you taking such good care of yourself." I took her hand, bowing low to kiss it, but she stayed me, lightly touching my face, before drawing her hand away as though surprised by the gesture.
"Oh, I hope you won't leave just yet," she said, her voice softening.
That took me aback. "Well, I . . ."
"I am so enjoying our conversation, and I thought you'd like a quick look at some of my paintings."
"I would, indeed, but for you to have a visitor at so late an hour—"
"Is entirely my business and none of my neighbors'. Do come in, I won't bite."
Nonplused by the irregularity, but pleased at the opportunity to spend more time with her, I signed for the hansom driver to go on.
The front door opened to a tiny, bare entry that was very dark. She kept a candle on a little table there and lighted it, then led the way in. The next room was of considerable size and length, bigger than the music hall stage, with rows of high windows along the outer wall.
"My congratulations on finding a place with such conveniently placed lighting," I said, for the windows all faced north.
"I was very fortunate, though it gets miserably cold here in winter. I've had a coal heater put in, but it's not always up to the task, especially when I forget to stoke it."
She'd had gas laid in as well and went from sconce to sconce with the candle until the room glowed.
She had several easels set up, all with paintings in progress, or finished and drying; some were shrouded with drop cloths. The smells of linseed oil and turpentine were in the chill air, but not so heavy as to be sick-making. Two of the windows were cracked open an inch or so for ventilation, and I could see her breath hang in the air.
"Lately I've had some success with portraiture," she said, indicating one of the uncovered canvases. "I'm not up to National Gallery level, but I flatter myself that I may provide some competition to James Whistler. Here's a nice one, I'm rather proud of most of it."
The portrait was of a young woman in a garden surrounded by flowers. Her pensive face had been captured in such a way that I was sure I would know her if I passed her on the street. "This is marvelous. You've a most remarkable talent."
She gave me a long look, as though to ascertain that I was not spouting empty flattery, and seemed pleased. "Thank you. I think I worked too hard on her hands, though, I may have to cover them with a bouquet to conceal my mistake. You do not think the background is overdone, do you?"
"Not at all, she stands out from it, and it complements, but does not overwhelm."
"You've an understanding of composition and balance." That pleased her, too.
"I've learned a few things in my travels."
She turned toward the painting, her eye critical. "Backgrounds can be very difficult. I paint the background first, then the figure. There are whole schools that vehemently argue for and against it. I've tried both ways. It's a terrible disappointment to put so much work in on the figure, only to botch the background. Once I had to burn the final result lest someone see it and think me terribly incompetent."
"Every artist must find what best works for him or her, there is no right way for all."
"You are most perceptive."
"Well, I did spend a lot of time in Paris. You can't help but pick up ideas talking to people. Artists with strong opinions are thick on the ground over there."
"As are art critics. The French are very particular in their tastes."
"And the English?"
"I wasn't aware we had any taste at all. The Queen's preferences can be most mundane."
"I hope that observation does not border on treason," I joked.
"It does in some circles, but not the ones in which I orbit. Of course, they have their own strict standards, which shift and change in a most whimsical way, so I pay them no attention. I paint what I like and to the devil with what they think."
"You apply that philosophy to the rest of your life, Miss Bertrice. You have my admiration for it."
She paused, favoring me with the sun of her smile, warming me. "What a sweet thing to say. Thank you. But I'm a poor hostess; I must offer you a brandy against this cold."
"Oh, I'm fine. What are these chalk marks on the floor?" I pointed toward a large area clear of furnishings except for two mismatched chairs set next to each other. I was becoming quite adept at distracting her.
"That's our stage." She strode over, her arms out as though to conjure up curtains and footlights. "Here are the thrones for Claudius and Gertrude. The chalk lines mark the bounds of the music hall stage area. It is somewhat smaller than this room, so we must make certain the action for the duel stays well within them. Elsewise I or Laertes might tumble into the orchestra."
"That would be inconvenient."
"It's been known to happen. Well, if you are not cold, then I am. I've a sitting room within. Let me build up the fire while you have a study of my other paintings. I'd show you 'round, but it's best not to have the artist peering over your shoulder."
So saying, she excused herself and went through an arched doorway, taking her candle along. It surprised me that she did not have any servants, or perhaps they resided off the premises. I listened most carefully and could hear no other stirrings within the building. Certainly it bespoke strongly for her sense of independence that she looked after her own needs, especially since she was raised from the cradle to take privilege for granted. The other ladies of her class would not even know how to make a fire for themselves, much less see to the practicalities of earning their living. I hoped that at some point, when she would not think me too forward to inquire, Bertrice would tell me of how she came to be a successful "adventuress" in her own right.
For the present, I amused myself looking at the rest of the uncovered paintings, and found my esteem for her growing by the minute. She was a rare actress, but outshone herself as an artist. She had some dandy landscapes and still lifes, but it was the portraits that truly mesmerized. She had some trick of capturing the most fleeting expression in such a way as to expose the very soul. One in particular was almost disturbing, that of a very delicately featured young woman. She was beautiful, nearly ethereal, but seemed to bear the weight of a thousand years in her dark eyes, yet they were warm with compassion for all they saw.
"One of my more successful commissions," said Bertrice, coming up. She'd divested herself of hat and cloak and had dabbed on a fresh touch of that spice perfume. "I hope it will be well received, anyway."
"I think the lady will be most pleased with your work."
"Yes, but it's her gentleman friend who hired me that I have to please first. Nice fellow, but sometimes a bit exacting, especially in regard to her. You met him briefly at the gathering. Lord Richard d'Orleans? The fellow was dressed like a crusader and had the card reading just before you."
Damn. And I'd wanted to avoid that topic altogether. "He should be very happy with what you've done here, I know I would."
"You are most kind. I've wondered if you've thought more about that little ruffling of Sholenka's psychic feathers."
"Erm . . . not really." I needed to distract her again. "I've since been more concerned with your brother. He was in very good spirits when I left. Quite brought his color up, though that may have been the brandy . . ."
"So you've told me, and I'm glad. Sholenka is also feeling more improved. I later called on her, and we had a very nice chat."
"I'm sorry that I distressed her. It still puzzles me."
"Does it?" She cocked an eyebrow. "Come to my sitting room. Perhaps I can remove some of your puzzlement."
That sounded ominous.
She had a way about her, polite, but nothing that would brook refusal. To do so would be rude, so I followed her into a much smaller room. It was quite a surprise. Where the outer hall had the look of a railway station, this inner apartment seemed to have been lifted en toto from Ring. Its decor was that of a proper and quite comfortable home ready to receive guests, with oak wainscoting, flocked wallpaper, and a number of chairs and settees scattered about. The walls sported paintings, the style of which I recognized as her own, and a merry fire blazed away in a generously sized fireplace.
"This is very nice," I exclaimed.
"Yes, and a bit of a shock, too. Most people expect an artist to subsist in a dreary garret, but I've never cared for the Spartan philosophy. Besides, the damp is bad for the canvases. Please do let me take your coat and have a seat by the fire."
After we disposed ourselves, me on a settee and she in a basket chair opposite, she again offered me refreshment, and seemed amused when I told her not to trouble herself.
"You're a very interesting man, Quincey," she said.
She'd left off the "mister" I noted. "I'm just an ordinary sort of fellow. You're the one here who is truly interesting."
"I think not. Especially after my talk with dear Shola. I also had a brief chat with Lord Richard and a few others who had been at the party. They were . . . helpful to me."
"In what way?" I spoke lightly, but she regarded me in such a focused manner that I felt a prickling crawl along my spine like spider tracks. She was leading up to something, that was obvious. I wasn't sure I would like it, either.
"What did you think of the people there?" she asked.
It seemed an abrupt change of subject, but my instincts told me there would eventually be a point to this. "I'm not sure what you mean."
"Did not a few of them strike you as being somewhat unusual?"
"Certainly Mr. Price did. But I put all that down to it being a fancy dress party and everyone having a connection to the theater. Most of them seemed to be artistic types, and they never come out of the same mold as the rest of the world."
"How diplomatically put. Let me speak of Lord Richard in particular. Did you not sense anything different about him?"
"Only that his outfit seemed to suit him more than most."
"And what about what he said to you? As though you two were part of some secret club or society?"
I spread my hands in a shrug. "I've no explanation. Drink, perhaps?"
She gave me a most winning smile. "Oh, dear, I must stop teasing you. You deserve better."
"Again, I don't know what you mean."
"Oh, but you do." She leaned forward, laying her soft hand on mine and looking into my eyes. Her voice dropped to a very warm, comforting tone. "You see, Quincey, I know what you are."
Speech fled me for an instant. Ice seized my heart. "I'm sure I don't know—"
"But you do. And it's all right. You're safe with me. I understand." She stood and went around her chair. Behind it was another cloth-shrouded easel. Smiling down at me, she stripped the cloth away in one sweeping motion.
Beneath it was a mirror.