Chapter 24

Chapter 24

At the poetry reading, Anthony had been certain that he saw Lady Abigail Hastings. It had only been a quick, fleeting glimpse from behind, but he was certain that it was she. Anthony raked a hand through his hair. He began to pace across the floor of his study, thinking about her and Bridget and Anastasia.

If he were a younger and more foolish man, hearing such a scandalous poem read aloud would have set his blood so aflame with desire that he might have done something quite reckless with Lady Hastings. But the years had taught him restraint, if nothing else.

He had seen the way that Bridget looked at him, though. Her eyes had been alight with heat and desire, and even as Anthony apologized for the kiss, he could sense within her that she did not regret it. Perhaps, she even enjoyed it. James was correct on one account; Anthony did not need to decide if he loved Bridget yet. However, he did have an obligation not to give the lady false hope. He could not act upon his desires, even if she reciprocated them, without knowing that he was fond of her. That was how a gentleman ought to behave. It was so very difficult to exhibit restraint when Lady Bridget was so very lovely, though.

"What have you done to me?" Anthony muttered, his eyes cast upwards to the ceiling.

He was tempted to summon James, so he would have someone to share such feelings with. However, he suspected that the conversation would end much like all the others. Anthony would express his confusion over Bridget, James would be supportive, and nothing would really be accomplished. That was frustrating. Anthony had always delighted in accomplishments. He was a man, who always strived to move forward, and yet Bridget sent his thoughts into an endless loop of I love her and want her and cannot have her.

If Anthony said such to James, his loyal valet would remind him yet again that Anastasia would have wanted him to find love. She would have encouraged his affection for Bridget. Then, Anthony would feel even more wretched. At this point, it was best to say nothing at all.

Anthony crossed his arms and leaned against his desk. "I understand sometimes why people believe in seances and such nonsense," Anthony said. "I would give anything to speak to you again, Anastasia."

He found himself speaking only to empty space, though. Anthony chuckled as he imagined what might happen if his loyal staff wandered past and heard him speaking to no one. They would pity him because they were kind, and while Anthony would much rather be pitied than detested, he did not particularly enjoy either prospect.

Anthony forced down the lump that rose in his throat. On an impulse, he pushed away from the desk and left his study. There was one particular room in the townhouse which he had not visited since Anastasia's death. He knew that the maids cleaned it, but otherwise, it was left untouched. It was a cemetery filled with ghosts of the past, and Anthony sometimes feared that if he tarried there that the ghosts would all arise and strangle him. That would certainly explain why he felt such tightness in his chest and throat when he entered the room.

Anthony curled his hand around the doorknob and took a deep breath. "You would not want this room to remain closed forever," he murmured.

He had furnished this room for her. While Anthony was not a talented painter, he did love making art. His father insisted that his devotion to painting was not suitable for a young man, much less one lacking in talent. But Anastasia had encouraged him to pursue his passion even if he was not very good, so he had. Anthony had furnished an entire studio in his townhouse. He and Anastasia had spent long hours in the room together, painting all manner of things. Sometimes, it was fruit or flowers. Often, it was one another. They had painted and exchanged sly remarks, while Anastasia's lady's maid and James watched with amusement and sometimes, a little embarrassment.

Anthony turned the knob and slowly entered the room. There was no dust or grime, no linens draped over furniture, or anything to indicate that the room had been untouched. Anthony knew that this was because the maids regularly cleaned the room, but it felt strange to enter the room after such a long absence and find it utterly unchanged. If he breathed too heavily, he might inhale the familiar scent of Anastasia's perfume and the lavender water that she used in her hair.

"Here you are," Anthony muttered.

He clasped his hands behind his back, irrationally afraid to touch anything. Anthony could almost convince himself that Anastasia would enter behind him, and her laugh would fill the room.

"Let us open the curtains!" She had always loved to fill the room with the pristine light of the morning sun, heedless of the carpets and furniture which would fade if exposed to too much of the sun.

"Do you see how much better it is?" she would often ask.

Then, she would describe how the light changed everything—lent colors to fruits and flowers, beauty to even the most pedestrian of subjects. She would talk about contrast and line with such passion that Anthony would be left utterly enraptured by her love for art.

He idly lifted a brush and twirled it between his fingers, gazing at the unfinished canvas before him. The night that Anastasia died, this painting had been still wet. It was nothing more than a scattering of lines and colors, but Anthony knew that Anastasia had intended for it to be a self-portrait when the piece was completed. If he squinted, he could imagine how the oval of color would become Anastasia's lovely face and how the black and dark brown would blend into the lighter hue of her hair. She had worn a pale blue gown that morning, trimmed with white lace that fell like a waterfall over her round, delicate shoulders. On the canvas, the gown was nothing more than a smattering of smooth, bold paint-strokes.

"Your last painting," he mused. "Do you know how often I have thought about completing it? Or trying to, rather."

Anthony considered finishing the painting every time that he saw it. He associated the painting with Anastasia, and he felt that finishing it would be—in some small way—returning her to him. It would be a piece of art that he completed with her, Anastasia's final painting and his memory of her. Anthony always hesitated, though. How could he even hope to capture Anastasia's beauty, as lacking in talent as he was? All the passion and love in the world could not transform a talentless man into a proper artist.

He would ruin the painting with his folly. If Anthony tried to finish it, he would paint one eye larger than the other, make her nose crooked, paint her hair in colors that were too flat. The painting would bear every mark of having been completed by an amateur, and yet Anastasia had loved his art, as flawed as it was.

"I still remember quite clearly what you looked like," he murmured. "Your face, your hair, your eyes…"

When he gazed at the painting, he could envision how it would become the very visage of Anastasia. He sighed. In his mind's eye, she was always alive and perfect. He never saw her in her final moments, as pale and bloodied with her neck at an unnatural angle.

Anthony grasped a chair and pulled it toward him, so he could sit before the painting. The paints were all still in their bottles. He experimentally opened the blue paint and found that it was still in fine form. Anthony twirled his brush in it, stirring the paint a little. He gazed at Anastasia's unfinished gown.

In his mind, he could see how to finish it. Anthony remembered gazing at her above his own easel, which had contained a rough painting of a bowl of fruit. When he closed his eyes, he saw every crease and fold in her dress. He saw how the fabric stretched over her full and lovely breasts and tapered at her slender waist. Anthony had painted her often, producing terrible portrait after terrible portrait, simply so he could justify staring at her.

He gingerly pressed the tip of the brush to the sleeve of her gown, leaving the smallest drop of color. Anthony had not painted anything since Anastasia died. Painting now felt as if he were doing something right or committing an unforgivable sin, and he could not decide which. Anthony took a steadying breath and painted a gentle, curved line over the circle of blue that Anastasia had left.

Anthony paused and looked at the painting. Thus far, he had done nothing to destroy the painting. Anastasia would have done precisely the same thing; she always began with unremarkable shapes and colors and arranged them in just the right way.

"You would tell me that it did not matter if I made errors," Anthony said, smiling slightly. "You would insist that any painting I produced would be good, even if it did not look as nice as I wanted it to."

He remembered sitting behind her, watching her careful brushstrokes. Sometimes, Anthony had dared to lean close to her and had kissed her neck. Those times were seldom, though. Anthony had been forever aware that James and Anastasia's lady's maid watched him. He wondered if Bridget would enjoy seeing the studio. It was, he reflected, somewhat shameful that this once lively room had been reduced to silence and emptiness.