5. Chapter Five

Spring sunshine flittered between a few vestiges of persistent winter cloud. So tired he felt groggy, Julian had still dragged himself from his bed to bid farewell to Blythe. She had protested the carriage, but he had insisted she should take it not only to the train station but all the way to town, as his last act as her protector. Her fake protector. Or whatever he was.

Yvette enveloped Blythe in a tight embrace, and Blythe rested her chin on Yvette's shoulder. With one final squeeze, they separated.

‘I shall only be in London,' Blythe said. ‘It's not as if you never go there.'

‘I know,' Yvette said, before drawing Blythe close again, and then releasing her. ‘But this feels different. You'll be heading into your world, your dream of brushes and oils and whatever little magic solutions you have in that kit you take everywhere. And I am to travel. I feel like when we meet again, we could be different people, transformed by life. And that might make us strangers.'

‘I will look forward to getting to know this new Yvette, then,' Blythe said.

Their friendship was so genuine, the like Yvette had never really known before, and between the joy, Julian's chest ached with shame. How had he seduced his daughter's friend? He knew how he had, but what had possessed him?

Blythe took a sidestep to stand before him. Julian was still weighing the propriety of how he should bid her farewell, when she clasped his hand, drew him close, and pressed her cheek against his and blew the lightest of kisses.

‘I am sorry,' he whispered, the words a choke in his throat.

‘Are you?' Her breath was less than a sigh, her eyes darting as they searched his face. ‘I'm not.' And she gave him a flash of her wicked grin, that delicious, mischievous dimple tucking itself into her cheek, before hiding again.

The remorse loosened, and with it, he felt a little of her magic anchor in him. ‘No, I'm not,' he said, then suddenly remembering himself, he resumed the familiar demeanour of a baron. ‘This is for you. I believe its customary to give a gift when one bids farewell to a…' He grappled for a word other than mistress. ‘To a friend.' Julian thrust a small parcel at her with more force than he intended, and she took a haphazard step backward, before accepting his gift. ‘Don't open it,' he added, his urgency earning him an eyebrow raise. ‘I'd rather you waited until you were on your journey. It's something more suited to times of personal… reflection.'

‘I left a gift for you too. In the attic.' She laughed, a sure sign that the jolt of worry had reached his face. ‘It's for both of you. Thank you for a magical weekend.'

Once the carriage passed by the gates, Yvette went inside, but Julian stayed watching as the little maroon vehicle grew small. Just before it rounded the bend that would take her from him forever, her face, then half her body emerged from the carriage window, and while it was hard to be sure through the blur of the distance, he thought she blew a kiss.

Julian felt sure she'd unwrapped his gift: a small print from I Modi, also known as The Ways. Centuries of church banning, plate smashing, and book burning had done their best to snuff out the small montage of drawings depicting lovers in various amorous contortions, and while so many portions had been lost, the beautiful homage to intimacy had never been completely erased. He'd bought the print, at least a century old, from a book binder in Rome who made him swear he'd never reveal how he found it if caught. When Julian had woken that morning, his memory fresh with Blythe's beautiful stance against him, he"d remembered his purchase, and for the first time, he appreciated not only the artist, but the hands that had cared for the little slip of parchment for all those years. People like Blythe.

Julian returned the kiss. Carlson sauntered out the front door, pressed his fists into his back and gave a loud belch. ‘Fabulous breakfast spread.' He followed Julian's gaze. ‘Where's your mistress going?'

‘To London. To take up her position at the gallery. She's going to be amazing.'

‘You've released her? Terminated your contract? But why?'

So many things in Carlson's questioning confused him, but rather than try and reply, Julian shrugged and inspected the lawn. ‘She has a brilliant career ahead of her.'

‘I don't say this to everyone.' Carlson slapped Julian's shoulder, the two of them watching the carriage as it rounded the corner. ‘But you, my friend, are a fucking idiot.'

The day passed in an obscure haze of meals, conversation and bland entertainment. At every turn, he looked for Blythe, before his heart reminded him with a chiding thump that she had gone.

After dinner, his obligations finally exhausted, Julian excused himself from port and cigars. While he had told himself he was going to make his way to his study, he instead found himself trudging the wooden stairs to the attic, his candle flame flickering long shadows over the wall. He opened the door, expecting to find the memory of Blythe, but instead was faced with the visage of his dead wife.

He almost dropped the candle.

Set on an easel, slightly back from the door, towards the window where Blythe had worked, the painting of Penelope almost glowed with its own luminescence against the dim flame. Surrounded by a simple gilt frame, measuring about three foot high and two foot wide, he'd commissioned the painting not long after Yvette had been born. The artist hadn't been anyone special at the time, and still wasn't, but he'd made Penelope comfortable. One hand resting on her cheek, leaning back against a chaise, with a tired, warm smile, she stared out at him with her soft expression. Always so calm, the artist had captured the countenance of a woman who always knew what to do and what to say. From between the stacked frames and covered furniture, Blythe had found her, retrieved and restored her. Why? Was it some kind of accusation? He shook his head to no one. No. Blythe didn't have it in her to be jealous.

For years, he'd tried to stifle his grief with duty and work, convincing himself that business and a narrow range of emotions made him complete. Then, when he'd met Blythe and begun to feel something new, but also familiar, he thought he might be able to blot it out with a hint of knavery, but still that same dread weight remained. As he ran a finger over the indented mouldings of the painted plaster frame, he allowed everything he'd locked away to float up from the recesses he'd shoved them into. Was it grief? No, not like the pain he'd felt in those empty days after Penelope had died. Not grief. Guilt. An aching shame that he had remained to see their child grown, and she hadn't. She would have revelled in being a parent, and probably done a far better job than he had. He'd kept his wife's memory locked up here, making himself a martyr for her loss, but now all he felt was cold that instead of living a life for both of them, he'd barely lived his own.

Not only had Blythe seen through his fa?ade, she understood. We all carry our dead, she had said, but they don't have to be heavy. At the time, he had felt that the weight of Penelope's loss would slow and stunt him. But seeing her free of dirt and grime, at her most beautiful, humble happiness, he felt like the memory of her could actually be a light thing. It could be laughter and holding hands and shared innocence. She could be as weightless as a feather on his shoulder. He closed his eyes and inhaled, trying to dredge up a forgotten memory of her scent, or her touch. Nothing returned. The memory had gone, but at the realisation of the loss, his heart didn't sting. Instead, it thudded, extra hard against his ribs with a new thought and anticipation. He smelt Blythe, saw her when he closed his eyes, and felt her touch on his hand. Could he do that? Walk forward with the memory of the love of one woman still in his heart, while the freshness of a new relationship buoyed him back into being?

He eased himself onto the settee, absentmindedly stroking the brocade, staring at the work.

A hollow knock on the door forced his attention awake. Yvette stood in the doorway, her own candle lighting her face. Not his little girl anymore, but a woman grown, and so much like Penelope. Like him, she walked across the room slightly mesmerised.

‘She restored it?'

Julian nodded, unwilling to find words.

‘Why?'

He still hadn't arrived at a conclusion himself. Yvette rested her candle on a small table and pushed back a sheet, before lowering herself into one of the old chairs.

‘Do you know that everyone has been gossiping all weekend?' Yvette spoke cautiously. ‘There was a rumour that my good friend had become the mistress of one of the guests, and everyone was trying to figure out who it might be. But it's you, isn't it?'

Julian searched his daughters face, his stomach heavy with disgrace. ‘It wasn't like that at first, I was only trying to help. Carlson, did bloody Carlson tell you? It's all his fault, all of it—'

Yvette held up a silencing hand. ‘Carlson has remained tight lipped. Typical bloody cad. I figured it out on my own.'

‘Because of the scene in the ballroom.' He sounded like a confessing child, and he hated it.

Yvette laughed. ‘That confirmed my suspicions, but no. You are not as walled off as you think, at least not to me. She made you smile. Not only this weekend when I do not want to know what transpired, but from the first evening when we arrived. She lit you like a lantern. Not like the sun, or a candle, shining light onto you, but from within.'

Isn't that why he had agreed to her slightly ridiculous plan? Because he liked being in her orbit? She was a woman who didn't need anyone, but in her moment of vulnerability, she had come to him. It had flattered his sense of strength and self. In a world where he was slowly becoming obsolete, she'd given him a new sense of purpose.

‘Yvette, I… I want you to hang this, downstairs. Anywhere you like.'

Yvette straightened, her expression puzzled, her eyes narrowing in confusion, and maybe, also concern. Then she smiled, and with it, he felt the frostiness that had always been between them when Penelope was mentioned melt away. ‘Really? It won't upset you?'

‘Maybe. But I can't keep her locked up here. She's not a ghost. She's a memory.'

They sat in shared silence, finally comfortable, and with a crush, Julian realised the gift Blythe had given them. It wasn't the painting cleaned and restored, but this moment, reconnecting with his daughter, passing into a new understanding. With a cinch in his heart, he realised that he'd released both of them. Penelope into the ether and Yvette into her future.

Yvette broke the silence first. ‘You should find her.'

Julian shook his head. ‘She has her career.' He gestured helplessly at the painting. ‘Her skill should be out there in the world. I'd only hold her back. And your inheritance. What about the life you imagined?'

‘What about yours that you haven't even dared to imagine?' Yvette rose, took up her candle and slowly made her way to the door, where she paused. ‘There is more than one way to make a happy ending.'

‘She is half my age,' he said, not liking the slight whine to his voice.

Yvette didn't even look back as she left. ‘She is half of you.'