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“Hadn’t gotten to introductions.” Humphreys placed a hand on his heart. “We went right round the Wrekin. I dunna even know the name of the girl I’m sweet on.”
“A sorry plight.” Anthony folded his arms, and Humphreys slipped the hand on his chest into his jacket and produced a letter.
“Came at the last delivery,” he said, handing it over. He looked between Anthony and Lucy expectantly, then sighed.
“Off I go,” he said and rambled out.
Lucy stared. “That’s your valet?”
“Was he bothering you?”
“It was hard to tell,” she said, and Anthony laughed, an easy laugh, hanging his jacket on a bit of iron projecting from a muntin. When the glasshouse functioned as such, those brackets held the ventilators.
“He puts the Shropshire on thick for the ladies, but he’s a good lad.”
“Humphreys.” She turned the tube of paint over in her hand, placed it carefully back in the box. “The infantryman on the retreat, who you roused and then . . .”
“Saved my life.” He smiled. “After the court-martial, he didn’t want to rush straight home to the farm for another round of tongue-lashings. I offered him a position. It turns out I need him more than he needs me.”
He held up the letter. “When he can, he intercepts the post so Collins can’t steam it open or throw it in the fire. Acts as a lookout.”
A lookout. So Anthony could drink without risking discovery, no doubt. She raised an eyebrow.
“More of an accomplice than a valet.”
He shrugged. “He answers to anything. We understand each other.”
The sky shone dove gray, the cloudy light pouring through the glass, softening the green of his eyes. Not the green of faceted jewels. Today, his eyes were green like the leaves on the fig trees that once filled the overturned planters.
Fig trees, nectarine trees, lemon trees. She’d been spellbound by his description of the glasshouse from the days when his mother tended it. Green leaves unfurling, green vines climbing, globes of orange and purple fruits hanging overhead. The air sweet and heavy as sleep. A waking dream. His face had taken on a dreamy quality as he spoke. However cynical and self-destructive he may have become, he still possessed a capacity for wonder.
Now he broke her gaze. Whistling, he walked to the tank where he stored his liquor, rolled back the oilcloth cover, took out a bottle, and splashed whiskey into a tumbler. She knew she should bite her tongue.
“Have you considered complying with your father’s will?” she asked. “You’d save yourself a world of trouble.”
He inspected the whiskey in the glass, sipped, seemed to find it to his satisfaction. “I’ll take that under advisement.” Without looking at her, he leaned against the low brick wall, his customary spot, and ripped open the letter. She turned back to her canvas.
Fair enough. She wasn’t here to give him counsel or draw him into conversation. She was here to paint. She picked up her brush. Put it down at the sound of ripping paper. He was shredding the letter into pieces. He caught her glance and smiled.
“Destroying the evidence,” he said.
Perhaps she looked uncomprehending.
“A letter from my aunt Helen.” He tucked the scraps into his pocket. “I am forbidden contact with my mother’s family.”
He swallowed the glass of whiskey. Here was a new wrinkle. She gnawed her lip, regarding him. Prohibiting drink was one thing. Prohibiting relatives quite another. Her mental portrait of Weston the elder continued to darken. He’d disowned one child and cut off the other from people who loved him.
“Why?” she asked.
His smile was beautiful even when bitter. “My father did not share his reasons with his unreasoning son. He despised me. We ignored each other, unless my conduct made that impossible.”
He put a hand on the back of his neck, rubbing at a tensed muscle.
“In the end, his health was failing. I do wish I’d tried to talk with him. About Effie, at least. Maybe . . .” He shook off the thought. “It would have made no difference. He believed that Mediterranean blood heats too easily. My mother inclined to brain fever, which brought on the more serious diseases for which she was locked away.”
Nymphomania, he’d said. She thought of the paintings she’d seen in the Winter Exhibition of nymphs bathing in rivers, of nymphs caressing Cupid, of nymphs dancing with satyrs. They were fluid, graceful figures. In those paintings, the coloring was sensual. They were scenes of pleasure.
Was pleasure the disease? She wondered about his mother, this woman who wanted lush green even in winter, who died when imprisoned between bare gray walls.
