Barbara bretton, p.6
Barbara Bretton, page 6
Janine blushed berry red. "If I talked out of turn, miss, I hope you won't be holdin' it against me."
The girl was so obviously embarrassed that Alexandra sought to change the subject. "I am surprised to see you working down here this morning. I thought the upstairs rooms were your province."
Janine's relief was painful to behold. "There ain't too many of us here at Sea View, miss, and those of us young enough do more than our share. Year-round jobs are hard to come by out here in the country and I thank St. Joseph every night that I have this one."
How odd, Alexandra thought as she polished off the last scrap of sausage and glanced longingly at the fat corn muffins and pot of beach plum preserves near the teapot.
Andrew Lowell was obviously a man of wealth. Every corner of his house boasted magnificent artwork and treasured antiques; why the sale of just one of the marble sculptures in the library alone could support Gabrielle's family for a year. One would hardly think he would find it necessary to cut back on help. Yet, if she had learned anything in the English boarding school, she had learned that the rich behaved in ways that often made no sense at all to those not to-the-manor-born. Girls spent their last farthing on silk camisoles, enduring rooms cold as ice rather than purchase coal to warm a December night.
Janine whistled as she filled her snowy white apron with candlesticks. "I hope you had a good rest last night, miss, what with a new bed and all."
"I had a fine rest," Alexandra hedged. Sleep, unfortunately, had eluded her. Each time she closed her eyes she'd seen Matthew McKenna at the foot of the stairs, his arms about the dark-haired girl. "The room is beautiful."
"It is that." Janine plucked the silver salt cellar from the table and tossed it in her apron. "I would be workin' here five years this All Saints Day and you be the first visitor ever to use it."
The grandfather clock in the library tolled the half-hour and Alexandra reached for her tea to calm her nerves. "I thought breakfast was at eight," she said. "It would seem I am the proverbial early bird this morning."
Janine gave her a saucy look then chuckled. "Oh, no, miss, hardly that. The missus and Mr. McKenna took the carriage out near two hours ago."
Alexandra's shoulders drooped and she made an effort to keep her confused emotions under control. Janine was delightful but servants talked and being the object of belowstairs conjecture was hardly the way to begin her new position.
"I didn't realize Mr. McKenna was married."
Janine's eyes widened comically. "Mr. McKenna married? If that be true, he would be doin' his best to keep it a secret." Her red curls bobbed as she shook her head. She lowered her voice conspiratorially. "I call her the missus because I would be wonderin' how else to call her, what with their bein' together not blessed by the Holy Mother Church."
How beautiful the dark haired girl had looked in his arms last night.
How strange it made her feel to think about it.
"I understand," she managed finally, "and I appreciate your telling me."
"Well, I wouldn't be wantin' you to wonder what was what. This ain't the normal household, miss. My ma thinks I put one foot in hell the day I started workin' here but me, I wouldn't be seein' it that way."
Supremely uncomfortable with the turn of the conversation, Alexandra strove to change the subject. "No matter," she said brusquely. "It's Mr. Lowell I will be working with. Perhaps he is awaiting me in the library."
"He ain't in the library, miss."
Alexandra placed her linen serviette on the table and stood up. "The drawing room, then." She started for the door but Janine's high clear voice stopped her.
"He ain't there neither, miss."
She bit down hard on the inside of her cheek to keep from biting off the young maid's head. "Would you know where he is then, Janine?"
"I know where he ain't," the girl said with an eloquent shrug, "and he ain't in the house. Cook's husband said Mr. Stephen called for the pony cart and went out right after Mr. Matthew and the missus." The look she gave Alexandra was both challenging and cautious. "And it's happy I was to see him leave."
So Janine had felt the sharp edge of Matthew McKenna's tongue as well. "You don't like Mr. McKenna?"
Janine's snort of derision astonished Alexandra. "It wouldn't be Mr. Matthew I'm talkin' about, miss. It's--"
"Darling girl!"
Alexandra spun around as Stephen Lowell swept into the room smelling of leather and salt air. Before she could say a word, he grabbed her hands in his and focused his large blue eyes directly on her.
"Can you forgive me for being so terribly late." It was more a statement than a question. "Some little problem reared its ugly head and it was either attend to it now or have it flare up into a major conflagration." He glanced at the table where the remnants of her breakfast remained. "I'd rather hoped you would sleep late so we could have a leisurely breakfast alone."
Janine quietly disappeared back into the kitchen. Alexandra disengaged her hands from his and smoothed down the front of her violet dress.
"I could hardly sleep late when you said we were to begin working at eight," she reminded gently.
"So I did," mused Stephen, scratching the underside of his chin with a thumbnail. "My memory hasn't been worth a tinker's damn lately, Miss Glenn." His smile was wide and guileless. "Am I forgiven?"
She inclined her head politely, once again the Aynsley girl. "Of course," she said, still somewhat shocked by his language. "A wise employee always sees fit to accept heartfelt apologies from her employer."
He looked at her for a moment then threw his head back and laughed. "Why is it I feel I'm being elegantly skewered?"
She merely smiled brightly. "I am certain I have not the slightest idea, Mr. Lowell."
"I must correct you on one point, however, and remind you I am not your employer. My uncle Andrew is that."
"I have not as yet met your uncle Andrew," she said, following him into the foyer. "At this moment, you are the only authority I have come in contact with."
He stopped near the foot of the stairs and leaned against the banister. "That oversight can be corrected."
Her pulse beat so strongly in her throat that she couldn't speak.
"Don't look at me that way, darling girl," Stephen said with a low laugh. "His reputation notwithstanding, Andrew Lowell is just like any other man."
If every other man happened to be a genius...
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Fire's Lady
Chapter Five
"That's blasphemous!" Alexandra exclaimed once shock allowed her to speak. "Saying Andrew Lowell is like everyone else is like saying Napoleon Bonaparte was just another soldier." She drew herself up to full height. "Your uncle is a legend in Paris. A legend."
Andrew Lowell's name had single-handedly kept the Impressionist art movement alive when most critics--and the public, as well--were clamoring for the artists' heads on a huge silver platter.
Stephen regarded her seriously. "Alexandra, this legend, as you call him, may not be all you expect."
"He is Andrew Lowell, is he not? What more can I ask." The thought of breathing the same air as the famous artist made her legs tremble.
"This is the perfect time," he said, shepherding her up the winding staircase. "Both Matthew and Dayla are in town this morning."
"I am afraid I do not quite understand. Surely he can have visitors--"
"Clumsy wording, Miss Glenn," Stephen broke in smoothly. "Of course my uncle can have visitors. You have been hired to work with him, have you not? It is only that our inebriated friend Mr. McKenna tends to be a bit overprotective, shall we say." He looked at her puzzled face and chuckled low. "No matter, darling girl. It will all make sense, I promise you."
She started to say something but he wouldn't allow it. "No need to fear," he continued, "for you're looking pretty as a painted boat today and God knows, my uncle has an eye for beauty."
That fact was patently obvious by the choice of extravagant furnishing in the mansion. If she'd believed the rooms on the first floor were splendid, they were nothing when compared to the riches of the mansion's master wing. A marble sculpture of Zeus, powerful and alive, dominated an alcove window at the top of the stairs, flanked by a tiny Vermeer oil, a Raphael drawing, and an illuminated manuscript on a gilt stand. Persian carpets in lustrous shades of pearl and dove grey fired with bursts of crimson covered the floors while massive portraits of long-dead Lowells watched her progress through the winding hallway toward the artist's suite of rooms.
She stopped for a moment before one of those venerable Lowell ancestors. A woman, captured in the full flower of her beauty, smiled sweetly from the canvas, her golden eyes sparkling with banked emotion and for a moment Alexandra felt an inexplicable pull. There was something strangely familiar about the woman's face, something that just managed to dance beyond her grasp, a proud regal strength that had not come to fruition in Stephen Lowell's handsome countenance.
Once, years ago, Alexandra had seen a portrait of Andrew Lowell by Sargent hanging in a London museum and then, too, she had felt the same pull. She had stood there in front of the portrait--fascinated by the leonine head of jet black hair and the cool glitter of golden eyes--until Marisa swooped down upon her and dragged her away by her ear.
How amazing to realize that her life had brought her to this place--and that Marisa was responsible.
She hurried to catch up with Stephen then followed him down the hallway until he stopped before the closed door to Andrew's room and tapped on it with his huge onyx and diamond signet ring.
"Ready?" he asked as she heard soft footsteps approaching.
She swallowed. "No, I do not believe I am ready at all."
"Just remember how much he needs you," Stephen said. "Just remember that--"
The door swung open and Alexandra found herself looking down into the liquid dark eyes of the woman she'd seen in Matthew McKenna's arms the previous evening.
"What the hell are you doing here?" Stephen barked. "I saw you with McKenna this morning."
"Yes," she said quietly. "And now I am here."
"Where's McKenna?"
"My business is not to know where Matthew is." Her voice was soft and melodious. "Nor is it yours."
"We're here to see Uncle Andrew," Stephen said, his voice now clipped and businesslike. "Please tell him."
The woman--whom Alexandra instantly realized wasn't the young girl she had believed her to be--nodded but remained standing where she was, her dark eyes intent upon Alexandra. Her intense scrutiny unnerved Alexandra and she thrust her hands behind her back to hide the sudden trembling that threatened to work its way through her entire body.
Next to her, Stephen was rigid with anger. "Either tell him now or we shall see him unannounced. It's your choice."
The woman's eyes finally left Alexandra. The look she gave Stephen was long and deep; the nuances, too subtle for Alexandra to comprehend.
"Perhaps we should try again later," Alexandra offered after the girl disappeared back inside.
"We'll see him now." He gave her gave her a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "Have no fear."
What a foolish thing to say! She was one roiling mass of fear as the woman swung the door open wide and ushered them inside.
"He is in the rear studio," the darkhaired woman said as they followed her through a long hallway panelled in lustrous mahogany and into a huge, sunny sitting room. "You are to wait one minute, yes?"
Stephen, arms folded across his chest, nodded brusquely. Alexandra could not manage even so simple an action for she was busy memorizing every detail about the room in case she should never see it again.
At first glance, the room seemed almost Japanese in style with eggshell walls that reflected the light streaming in through the enormous windows. A cluster of chairs, spare and angular, faced a sleek black marble hearth in the corner and an odd display of bare branches fanned out from a crystal cylinder that rested in the center of the room.
The woman returned. "He will see you."
Stephen turned and met Alexandra's eyes. "He's only a man," he said. "Not a god. Remember that."
Alexandra gulped and managed to nod her assent but in her heart she knew she was lying. If he wasn't a god, Andrew Lowell came closer than any other artist the Impressionist movement had managed to produce.
His back was to her as she stood in the doorway of his bedroom cum studio. An easel was set up before him with a small table to his left upon which rested some rags, tins of turpentine and linseed oil, and a pallette of magnificent oils whose colors held the secrets of great art. A basket of daisies balanced on the windowsill, next to two red apples and a pale blue china cup.
A fierce longing rose up inside Alexandra's artist's soul, and she wished it were possible to absorb all the knowledge in that room simply by running her hands over the textures of the paint itself.
"Have you gone mute then, Stephen?" Andrew Lowell's voice rasped like a pallette knife scraping over dry canvas. "Come over here and bring the girl with you."
Stephen's hand slipped beneath her elbow and she found herself propelled across the vast expanse of polished wood floor.
"You're sounding well this morning, Uncle Andrew," Stephen boomed, his voice sounding falsely hearty to Alexandra's ears. "The medicine must be helping."
"The medicine addles my brains," Lowell retorted. "Had I strength, I would toss it out the window. I may do so yet."
Alexandra noticed that Stephen's face paled at his uncle's words. "Then it is a good thing I keep it under lock and key, is it not? That medicine is of paramount importance, Uncle Andrew." He lowered his voice until his words were almost inaudible. "I shall make certain you continue to take it."
Andrew obviously did not hear that last statement for he continued to stare blatantly at Alexandra, taking her measure with his eyes. "I am waiting, Stephen."
Stephen recovered his poise. "I am pleased you are eager to meet your new assistant." Placing his palm against the small of her back, he gave her a push and Alexandra found herself face to face with the great artist. The sight of his ravaged body took her breath away and she prayed her shock wasn't visible. The proud lion of Sargent's portrait was gone, replaced by a man dying by degrees. His gaunt frame was dwarfed by a pale silk robe the colour of weak tea. Instead of the thick mane of black hair, thinning strands of winter white crisscrossed his head. The savage yellow-gold eyes had dimmed and smudges of charcoal fanned out beneath them, dipping almost onto the slashes of cheekbone that delineated his face.
Next to her Stephen cleared his throat. "Uncle Andrew," he said, "this is Alexandra Glenn."
No response from Andrew Lowell.
Stephen shifted position. "Alexandra has come here to help you. Don't you remember saying you needed an assistant?"
"I am physically ill, Stephen, not feeble-minded. I remember precisely what was said." The look he gave Stephen was one of sheer contempt and Alexandra had to steel herself against the urge to flee when he turned his faded glance on her. Suspicion was in his eyes and she pitied the genius who was indeed mortal after all.
"Hello," she said, inclining her head. "It is an honor to meet you, sir."
"I hate flattery," he snapped.
"As do I," she returned, holding her ground. "I speak the truth. Your reputation precedes you."
"Hah!" Lowell cackled. "If that is true, you would be wise to run, young lady." "Perhaps, I would but I have no intention of doing so."
He leaned closer. "I need no assistant." Stephen moved to speak but Andrew Lowell flashed him a quelling look. "I work alone."
"Naturally. I was under the impression that I am here to begin cataloguing your works."
"Ah, yes," he said dryly. "The inevitable gravestone summary of a man's achievements."
"I beg to differ with you, sir. The cataloguing of one's works is an artist's duty. How else can the scope of your achievement be appreciated by art collectors?"
Andrew motioned toward his nephew. "Did he tell you to say that?"
Her chin lifted in defiance. "I say what is on my mind, Mr. Lowell."
"Are you an art student?" he asked, watching her with the intensity of a hawk eyeing its prey.
"No, I am not." Her lessons had been catch-as-catch-can affairs that Esme had wangled for her, bartering away suppers of cassoulet and red wine in return for a bite of knowledge for Alexandra. "Someday I hope to be."
He snorted. "Mark me well, girl: I am no teacher. I create art; I do not explain it."
"Great art is its own explanation. I will learn whether or not you wish me to. Of that I have no doubt."
Her answer seemed to please him.
"You have an accent," he said, still watching her intently.
"As do you."
"I hear both French and British in your vowel sounds."
"You're quite perceptive, sir."
His attention shifted suddenly to Stephen. "It would be wise to remember that fact."
Instead of responding, Stephen made a show of gazing out the window at the ocean and Alexandra wondered if his action was one of wisdom or cowardice. It was impossible, however, to pursue that line of thought for Andrew's attention returned to her.
"I hate impertinent women," he said.
A smile pulled at the corners of her mouth. "I shall endeavor to remember that, sir, although a change at this late date seems terribly unlikely."
He motioned toward the beautiful dark-haired woman who waited silently in the corner of the room. "Take the chit to the attic," he said imperiously. "We shall see how much she learns fighting spiders for her work space."
