The Soldier's Dark Secret

Though perhaps they saw more than they revealed. Perhaps the notion of his French artist kissing his soldier brother was one of those things which Sir Charles knew all about, but chose not to mention. Not because it was shocking, but because it was unimportant. A French artist could have no role to play in the future of a baronet’s brother, save the obvious one as his mistress. Celeste perched on the windowsill. Why was it that being a mistress seemed so much more demeaning than being a lover? ‘Bien, it is obvious,’ she muttered. ‘A question of property, bought and paid for. Always, it comes to this, in France and in England. I will never be anyone’s mistress.’

She would, however, very much like to be Jack’s lover. In the two weeks that had passed since he had left for London, Celeste had been forced to accept that her feelings for him were a great deal stronger than she had ever experienced before. She missed him. The problem was, she missed him a great deal too much. She longed to make love to him. She knew he felt the same. One of the reasons he’d gone to London was because he was determined not to let that happen. Not that either of them had acknowledged the depth of their attraction, but they had not had to. That kiss in the lake had been evidence enough.

Sir Charles had made no reference to her intemperate outburst the day before Jack’s departure. Another thing swept under the carpet, no doubt because the opinion of the hired artisan meant as little as the fact that the hired artisan had been kissing her patron’s brother. Perhaps she was being unfair. Perhaps.

Jack had left his brother a note. It had been handed to Sir Charles at breakfast the morning of his departure, and the peer had been so surprised, he had read it aloud, quite forgetting Celeste’s presence.

‘So you see, my dear,’ Sir Charles had said to his wife, ‘he knows full well that his behaviour was somewhat extreme. I think we must take comfort in the fact that he feels well enough to venture alone to the metropolis.’

‘I am not entirely convinced,’ Lady Eleanor had replied, ‘that he ought to be let loose in London in his fragile state of mind.’

Sir Charles however had fully recovered his optimistic spirit. ‘We must regard that as a positive sign. He is no doubt looking to take up the reins of his life again. A cause for rejoicing, not worry.’

Turning away from the window, Celeste hoped that he was right. She wondered if Jack had made any progress with her locket or with that strange ring. She wondered how he was occupying his time. She could not imagine him shopping, or drinking in taverns or going to the theatre. Were there parks in London where he could walk? Was there a lake where he could swim? It was not only for the sake of his injured arm that he swam. His muscular body was testament to his love of exercise.

In an effort to stop herself thinking of that body, Celeste pulled a chair in front of her canvas. The untrimmed topiary had a fantastical look about it. It reminded her of something. She closed her eyes, willing her mind to go blank, a technique she had honed over the last couple of weeks, when memories had begun to pop into her head at the oddest times. Yes, she had it! Another illustration from the storybook her mother used to read to her.

There was no consistency to her memories, save that they were all from before the time she had been sent away to school. A swimming lesson. A description of a gown which made Maman smile at some secret memory. A sampler Celeste had worked on, depicting the English alphabet, which she’d had to hide from Henri. She could no longer deny that her mother had cared for her, but it made her determined efforts to disguise the fact all the more inexplicable. Celeste wondered, not for the first time, what Jack would make of it all. She laughed inwardly, not for the first time, at herself for wanting to tell him. There was, after all, something to be said for being understood, even just a little. It was not something she had reckoned on.

The sound of feet on the stairs outside the room made her heart give a silly little leap. No one ever came up here uninvited. It could not be Jack, because she’d have heard a carriage. Though the driveway was on the other side of the house. She jumped to her feet as the door opened, and her heart jumped again. ‘It’s you,’ she said stupidly.

‘In the flesh. May I come in?’

Celeste took a step back before she could throw herself at that very attractive flesh, trying to remind herself of all the very excellent reasons why she should not. Jack’s hair was ruffled, his clothes were dusty and he was in need of a shave, but still her pulses fluttered at the sight of him as he crossed the room.

He took her hand in his, made to raise it to his lips, then changed his mind. ‘I see you’ve been hard at work,’ he said, nodding at the canvas.

‘What do you think of it?’ His opinion of her was not relevant to the success or failure of the commission, but it mattered all the same.