“Did he, indeed.” It wasn’t a question. Lord John’s gaze was fixed on Amaranthus’s face. It was a perfectly pleasant expression, but William recognized it as his father’s chess-playing face, rapidly envisioning possibilities and just as rapidly discarding them.
“Ben and Adam … fought.” She looked down and William saw her hands clench briefly, as though she would as soon have joined in that fight. Likely she would, he thought, aware of a mild amusement, in spite of everything. “With their fists, I mean. I wasn’t there,” she added, raising her head and looking apologetic, “or I would have stopped them. But when Ben came to me afterward, he looked as though he’d gone a few rounds with a professional boxer.” The corner of her mouth twitched.
“You’ve seen a professional boxing match?” Lord John asked, diverted. She looked surprised, but nodded.
“Yes. Once. A boxing barn in Connecticut.”
“Well, I hadn’t thought you to be squeamish,” Papa said, breaking into a smile.
“No,” she said, with a small, rueful smile of her own. “Benjamin said I was tough as shoe leather—though he didn’t mean it as a compliment.” She noticed the half-full glass at this point, picked it up, and drank deeply.
“Anyway,” she said hoarsely, putting the glass down, “he’d told me about his father, and after the fight with Adam, he said a lot of things about his father, and how it would serve the old man right when Washington wiped his eye in battle, and how wild he’d be—the duke, I mean—especially when he realized that his own bloody heir had … I’m sorry,” she added apologetically. “I’m quoting Ben, you see.”
“So I assumed,” Lord John said. “But when you said you were afraid that Hal would believe you if you told him about Ben …？”
“What do you think he’d do?” she asked simply. “Or rather, what do you think he will do, if I—if I go ahead and tell him?” She’d started looking pale again, and William leaned forward to snag the bottle and top up her glass. Without asking, he refilled his father’s glass, as well, and then poured the dregs of the bottle into his.
Lord John sighed deeply, picked up his fresh glass, and drained it.
“To be honest, I don’t quite know what he’d do. But I do know how he’d feel.”
There was a brief silence. William broke it, feeling that someone had to say something.
“You mean you thought that if you’d told him the truth about Ben, he might become so distressed—well, insanely angry—that he might just toss you and Trevor out on your … um … ears. Tell you to go to the devil with Ben, I mean. I suppose he might disown Ben, for that matter; he has other sons.”
Amaranthus nodded, her lips pressed tight.
“Whereas,” William went on, not without sympathy, “if you were Ben’s widow, he’d be more likely to receive you with open arms.”
“And an open purse,” Lord John murmured, looking into the depths of his brandy.
Amaranthus turned her head sharply toward him, eyes gone suddenly dark.
“Have you gone hungry a day in your life, my lord?” she snapped. “Because I have, and I would happily become a whore to keep that from happening to my son.”
She rose, turned on her heel, and hurled her glass very accurately into the hearth. Then she stamped out, leaving blue flames behind her.
119
Encaustic
Savannah
DONE. BRIANNA STOOD IN the quiet light of a late afternoon, slowly cleaning her brushes and taking leave of her work. It was an odd process, letting go of something that had lived in her for months, gradually pulling free of the growing tentacles that had gripped her brain, her heart, her fingers.
People—people who didn’t usually do such things—likened it to childbirth. Writing a book, painting a picture, building a house—or a cathedral, she supposed, smiling a little. There were for sure metaphorical parallels, especially the mingled sense of relief and exultation at the conclusion. But to her, having painted pictures, built things, and given birth, the difference was pretty noticeable. When you’d finished a work of art or substance … it was finished, while children never were.
“Right there,” she said, with a deep sense of satisfaction, pointing the handle of a damp brush at the four portraits lined up against the wall before her. “You’re all right there. You’re done. You’re not going anywhere.” She heard the echo of her father’s voice, and laughed.