Page 54 of Flirting with Forever

“Please usher the master’s cousin to his room in the cellar. See that he rests there until morning.”

* * *

Peter’s hand was warm and dry, and her own felt like a child’s within it. He led her through the double doors to a small balcony. The sun was gone, replaced by a blue-gray black, and a field of stars adorned the sky. The balcony stood high above the street, and they had a clear view across the roofs of the city. The vastness of such a vista, as always, sent a pang of awe through her. She loved the way the southern hills of Pittsburgh looked from the windows of her loft—there was something about the way the sky enveloped you when you had the long view that really took your breath away—but this was even more spectacular: squat chimneys, unknown spires, glimpses of cobbled streets abuzz with Londoners, and, on a far hill, even a windmill silhouetted black against the sky.

“Oh my.”

He smiled, slipping his coat back over her shoulders. “I know. I love the feeling of gazing over the city. It’s as if one has been transported from one’s problems.”

“You have problems? Well, the king, I suppose. But I should think there are many rewards to being the royal portraitist as well.”

“There are. Look around. The house, the staff, the line of patrons. I am very grateful.” But his hand went to his ring, and there was something in his voice that didn’t quite ring true.

She was torn. She was tempted to pursue a line of questioning related to this ambivalence, but she knew she had a job here.

“I, uh, know there’s a lot of rivalry in the art world. You must have dozens of unpleasant stories of other painters trying to insinuate themselves with the king to take your place. I mean, how did you come into the position yourself?”

He laughed. “I hope, milady, I am not reading an implication of misconduct into your question.”

She flushed. “No, of course I did not mean you. Still, the story of how you got your start would be most interesting.”

“Well, of course, the position had been Van Dyck’s for many years. I was a great admirer of Van Dyck. He has certainly had a profound influence on my work. And you are right about rivalry. I do not think he cared o’ermuch for me, and he would certainly not have considered me an equal, with me being half his age and he being a man of preternaturally large pride.”

“So rare to find that in an artist.”

He smiled.

“And…?” she prompted.

“And I suppose I find myself in his shoes now. His age. Past the peak of my career. And yet I find myself far less eager than Van Dyck to cling to what I have.”

There it was again. That note of sorrow. She had the next Van Dyck question on the tip of her tongue, and a dozen more after that, but somehow the woman in her was more curious than the writer.

“You have problems? I mean, apart from the king?”

An uncomfortable quiet came over him. She waited, wondering if he’d say more. He lifted his chin, as if to reply, but he must have changed his mind, for all he said was “Come.”

He led her to the edge of the balcony, and she took a place along the wide, low balustrade by his side. He splayed his fingers on the marble, elbows straight, abstracted. She held her tongue, waiting for him.

“There,” he said.

She turned. In the distance, toward the river, tiny streamers of white fire rained down on the river, illuminating for an instant the decks and yardarms of several tall-masted ships. Muffled cheers from a crowd rose over the night.

“Fireworks!” she cried.

“The usual for Guy Fawkes, I should think.”

The Guy Fawkes celebration in England was akin to Halloween, she knew, and had something to do with the defeat of a plot to blow up Parliament, though her knowledge of English history was more than a little hazy, and she had not been aware the holiday had been celebrated as early as the seventeenth century.

“It’s still a bit early. Another quarter of an hour will see the start of something more organized. I take it you’re meeting someone?”

Meeting someone? Then it dawned on her. He thought she had a date for Guy Fawkes, which is why he had said “tonight of all nights” when she’d mentioned she couldn’t stay much longer. “No, I…It is something else. But surely you had an engagement?”

He smiled. “No, I am practically chained to the studio.”

Still he maintained his rigid grip on the railing. What haunted this man?

“Your ring is quite unusual,” she said.