Twenty-three

Hunter

9 December 1814

I could not have imagined the first three days of my marriage to Gwendolyn could have gone any better… well, maybe a little better in one aspect, but if she continued to encourage me like this, I would be smitten in a sennight.

I mounted Claymore and rode first to Bart's. Though the hospital claimed to be more of a teaching institute now, I hoped to find one of her paintings within. After entering through the historic King Henry VIII gate, I walked the stifling corridors, studying every painting. While there were many worthy and notable works of art draping the walls, none displayed Gwendolyn's signature "G". And to be honest, they didn't have her distinct style, though in truth I'd only ever seen three of her paintings. Disappointed I had lost an hour, I put my skills of deduction to the test before choosing my next destination.

What did I know about Lady Julia Greene? Since Gwendolyn confessed her friend chose the locations, her character would certainly influence that. At first glance, you might believe Julia to be shy, but since my acquaintance with the woman, I've seen hints of an impassioned person. Where would she have placed Gwendolyn's paintings?

I rubbed my chin then smiled. Of course. The Foundling Hospital in Bloomsbury, a home dedicated solely to the care of abandoned infants. A place Julia would have chosen and Gwendolyn would have approved of, had she known. I raced off to Hatten Garden.

Upon locating the red brick building, entry came easily to a lord, especially when the administration presumed you might become a benefactor. I noted several large paintings from the familiar hand of William Hogarth. The artist maintained a history with the hospital and, while he influenced many decisions regarding the children, it became known that he had encouraged other artists to adorn their walls, as well.

I skirted the chapel and strode down the right wing when I noticed a simple painting framed in plated silver. When I searched the bottom right corner, a flowery "G" appeared. I smiled widely upon its discovery then pondered the painting and its uniqueness. On the branch of an oak tree, a well-constructed nest contained two baby birds. From their distinctive colors, I presumed them to be robins. Above the nest in the clear blue sky, the mother bird flew protectively overhead. Gwendolyn demonstrated an exceptional artistic talent, and I smiled at my good fortune for witnessing the sentiments firsthand.

After meandering the maze of corridors, I exited out the opposite wing in case Julia thought to donate two paintings, but nothing else from Gwendolyn's hand appeared amongst the works of Sir Joshua Reynolds, Richard Wilson, and Francis Hayman. My mother was a connoisseur of art and had taught me the strokes of many famed styles over the years, enabling me to recognize the artist with a simple look.

I stood outside, overlooking Guilford Street, and assessed my next stop. Glancing at the gold watch in my waist pocket, I made note to budget my time properly, for I would not, save heaven and hell, miss dinner with my wife.

The Lying-In Hospital for Married Mothers would certainly be a suitable candidate, and I directed Claymore toward Brownlow Street, Westminster. The hospital had been under immense scrutiny in the press for years since it touted its use of midwifery over traditional surgeons. Regardless, it seemed to be the perfect destination for one of Gwendolyn's paintings.

My deduction skills paid off. The painting I found on the second floor portrayed a woman in her nightdress kneeling beside her bed in obvious torment. One hand reached upward where the faint image of a child above touched her fingertips, though the woman did not appear to be aware of the little spirit. I glanced at the corner to confirm the presence of the tell-tale "G". While other hospitals occupied my list, the emotional image drew me in, and I spent another two-quarters of an hour admiring it.

What could have driven her to draw such a poignant scene? I couldn't wait to ask but wanted to find more of her paintings before I returned home. Somehow, in the last two hours, the challenge had transformed into an aspiration… and I became ravenous to discover more of her work, though I knew I couldn't accomplish it all in one day.

By midafternoon, I crossed the Southwark bridge. The last time I had been in such a place was when Lucas and I were looking into his father's mysterious death. The neighborhood appeared rundown and rampant with crime. Though the St. Thomas Hospital certainly met the criteria of a worthy recipient, if Lady Julia did indeed place a painting there, I prayed she did not deliver it herself.

Indeed, success ensued as I found not one, but two of Gwendolyn's paintings; one on each floor.

The first depicted a snowy scene, much like I would picture in the country at Cordon Park. Icicles coated the tree branches, snow covered the ground, and outside of the white scene with minimal black lines representing the dormant branches, a brilliantly colored green butterfly exploded in the forefront. The sight took my breath away.

The second, an ocean under duress. Torrential rain and wind caused the waves to swell and, in the background, the faint masts of a sailing vessel appeared destined, it seemed, to a watery grave. The haunting image generated a restlessness within me. Again, I found my words failed me.

Now, I not only found myself falling for my wife, but for her paintings. The emotion portrayed in the images completely entranced and mystified me with how Gwendolyn chose her subjects. All the scenes varied, not was one the same. The woman was an anomaly… by several standards.

That night when I rushed home in time to dress for dinner, I felt as if I'd never been so eager for anything in my life. I couldn't wait to see Gwendolyn.

I wanted the evening to be special. I first met with Mary Jean, our cook, and confirmed our supper hour. Then I secretly arranged with Henry and Hannah to light additional candles for the dinner table. During my travels today, I also purchased a new set of paints and looked forward to what she might do with such brilliant colors as magenta, burnt orange, and metallic gray.

When Gwendolyn arrived in the dining room, she didn't mask her surprise. When her eyes took in the elaborate décor, with me standing there to greet her, she beamed. This was the smile I had witnessed more and more of as of late, and I loved being the one to bring that out. The same smile that had the power to bring a man to his knees.

"You found a painting." She pointed to the tin of new paints beside her plate.

"Actually…" I boasted with a wink, "… I found four." Holding out her chair, I motioned for her to sit. I had also placed the two seating arrangements beside each other, for I could not bear to be away from her side another moment.

"But first, I must beg that you allow me to ask additional questions about your paintings without using the four additional questions or commands. I already have something in mind for those."

The silver streaks in her green eyes sparked in response, while my heart pounded wildly in my chest. With only three days since our wedding vows, I knew I neared losing myself to her.

"Of course I can acquiesce," she placed her hand on my sleeve. "You've traipsed all over London looking for my paintings. How can I not be touched by that?" I took her hand in mine. "But…" she quickly added. "You mustn't tell me where you found them. I still want that to remain a secret."

I smiled at her, thinking back to my mother's words when I first referred to Gwendolyn as the Ice Princess. That is not who she is .

Those words had never held more truth.

When Hannah brought the first course out, Gwendolyn released our clasp and placed her linen on her lap. "Now, what painting did you find first?"

"The bird's nest with baby birds and the protective mother flying above."

She grinned. "Oh yes, I painted that while in the garden at Fallswood."

Despite the tantalizing aroma of the mulligatawny soup placed in front of me, I had no desire to turn from her. "Please explain the darkness to it, Gwen. A desperation existed, coupled with fear. Why is that?"

One of her eyebrows arched. "You detected that?"

"How could I not? I stared at it for a quarter of an hour."

She laughed and suddenly I realized how much I loved hearing that sound.

"Though not shown in the picture, a grass snake had slithered its way up the trunk of the oak tree. The mother's desperation felt palpable to me, with her young not yet ready to take flight and her inability to remove them from harm."

I gazed at her, astonished.

"Okay, the second one you found."

I cleared my throat but there was nothing I could do to clear my head, for this woman now took residence within. I took a drink of my sherry first. "A woman kneeling at the edge of her bed in apparent sorrow. One arm reaching upward and the faint outline of a child touching her fingertips." When I glanced again at Gwendolyn, she grew quiet, and tears bubbled in the corners of her eyes. I reached out for her hand again, which she easily gave. I had never been more grateful for her lack of wearing gloves so I could caress her skin directly. "Forgive me for upsetting you, Gwendolyn."

She met my eyes. "I'm not upset, not really, though I imagine I cried through a significant portion of painting that picture."

I stroked the inside of her palm and wrist. "Where do you get your inspiration?"

She gazed at me, confused. "Have I never told you?"

I shook my head.

"I paint Julia's poems," she revealed.

"What do you mean you paint her poems ?"

"Julia is a very passionate writer. She shares her emotions with a quill and ink." She smiled faintly. "I merely paint them."

Despite being thoroughly captivated before, I was now truly enthralled. "What is the story of the woman?"

"Her mother," she whispered. "Julia's younger sister died a few years ago from a fever, she was only three years of age. Julia recalls seeing her mother in that very position against the bed and wrote a poem expressing her mother's torment. I could not imagine losing a child. It would be devastating."

"But you captured the love between a mother and child eternally, a truly breathtaking feat."

She stared at me, though I could not quite identify the look. "Thank you," she whispered. Then she quickly said, "Please don't tell me where you found it, but is the painting in a place of healing?"

I had found it in the Lying-In Hospital for Married Mothers, I could not imagine a better place for it to be outside of Julia's home. "Yes, the very best."

She looked down at our hands, then threaded her fingers through mine. My body reacted by drawing her to my chest. I wanted to feel her against me. I wanted to comfort and protect her as long as she would let me.

Nestled against me with no indication she wanted to move, she asked about the third, then shared the story behind the winter scene. Far from what I had presumed, Julia penned the poem for her friend, The Ice Princess , but the words told a story about a misunderstood woman. The winter scene captured what the world sees. The green butterfly captured her soul.

"Might I read these poems?" I was drawn to them now as much as the paintings.

"Of course." She didn't move from my arms, and I didn't want her to. "And the fourth?" she asked.

"The shipwreck."

She nodded. "The HMS St. George. It sank at Nazen, only 7 of its 738 crew members survived."

"Why did Lady Julia write a poem about that tragedy?"

"It was her brother's first assignment. Thankfully, he transferred to the Hibernia before the disaster."

Twice, Hannah and Henry stepped into the dining room with our next course, and twice they retraced their steps. I only noticed this since Gwendolyn's head lay nestled against me, which gave me the advantage of seeing past her. I relished this simple intimacy, for if she allowed it, I would hold her all night long.

When she drew back, I felt a piece of me go with her. It was a physical detachment, one I realized I disliked.

She wiped her eyes. "I must be a sight."

I gazed at her. She was a sight, but certainly not the way she believed.

"You're beautiful," I whispered.

She met my eyes. "Thank you for holding me."

"My pleasure." Which it truly was.

After dinner and another relaxing night in the parlor, I found I read my book less and less and watched her paint more and more. Now that I understood what inspired her, I found myself drawn to every brushstroke she made. From the lift of her left hand and a gentle sweep, to at some point switching hands to her right. The movement astounded me. She painted as expertly with one hand as she did the other. And once again, an additional fascination joined my list of what I loved about my wife.

That night, as I walked her to her bedchamber, I held her hand again. The touch felt so soothing, so comfortable that I walked slower than I had the night before. I wanted to stretch out our time together. I wanted to be with her every moment she would allow.

But did she feel the same, or did she still grieve for Josiah?

Doubts still lingered in the quiet crevices of my mind. I must be patient. I must set my desires aside, and keep my pace slow, or I would surely force her back into her protective shell of ice. And that was the last place I wanted her to be.