Page 83 of His Mistress, His Muse, and Other Madness
Because of his father’s actions.
Hell. He’d read it and be done with it. He tore at the wax and opened it, and his father’s voice poured out like a deluge of tears.
My Theodore,
You should have had a grand career, my son. I’d planned for it, hoped for it. I thought my actions would bring you closer to it. If I steeped you deep enough in art and surrounded you with artists, I would foster that seed of talent in you. I pushed you from it, though.
That, as all the rest, my fault as well.
Do not blame your mother. We are all the products of our circumstances. Me, her, your brothers, you. Some of us do better within our circumstances than others. I wilted. But you, my son, will rise. Because you have a fierceness in you I’ve never had. I wish I could be there to see it.
Do not hate beauty and love because of me. They are powerful when wielded in the right way. So much more powerful than anything else. I fear I wielded them without wisdom. My greatest mistake. Sell the painting. It’s yours. An apology. And one day, when you are famous, sell this drawing, too. Your juvenilia. Priceless, though once you’ve grown a name for yourself there will be those who name it a steep price.
I love you,
Your father
He found a third piece of paper sandwiched between the note and paper that had folded the two inner pieces together. It distracted from a tumult of emotions he had no wish to face, so he slipped it out. Thin, worn, the paper almost see-through in places. A watercolor with his rough signature at the bottom, the wordsage 10next to it. He ran his fingers over the sixteen-year-old watercolor painting. Delicate and lively even now. He remembered when he’d painted it. A picnic by the lake—blankets spread over thick green grass, his mother’s and sister’s gowned forms leaning toward one another, a third woman in the corner—Matilda when she’d been governess to Maggie—and his father and Raph, darker columns nearby. A simple painting, nothing more than colored blobs, but the outlines of ink brought each form into sharp relief, into detail, into emotion. A happy family, the wind playing with bonnet strings, and Raph and his father laughing.
And Theo had been there, too. Watching, saving the memory in paint and ink. He stood and slammed the note and the watercolor down on his writing desk, his eyes burning. He found Raph’s study in a blurry fury and slammed the door open, unsure why he was running and slamming and demanding, just knowing he had to do it.
“If I win my inheritance, will you give the money to me?”
Sitting at the desk, Raph looked up from his books, startled. “Pardon?”
“If I win my inheritance and sell the Rubens, will you give the money to me? Not to me. I want it to go to Cordelia. She can buy the house or buy another or whatever she wishes. It should be hers.”
Raph slowly settled the pen in his hand into the crook of the notebook before him and pushed to standing. “Are you sure?”
Theo nodded. “Hell. If she uses it to buy the house from you, you’ll get it right back.”
“I’m not worried about that, Theo.” Raph rounded the desk and leaned against the front of it. “Are you… well?”
Of course he bloody hell wasn’t well. He dashed the evidence of his tears away.
“I think I’m in love,” he admitted. There it was, hanging heavy as a wool blanket in the room and three times as itchy.
“Ah.” Raph shifted. “With… whom?”
“With whom? Lady Cordelia!” Who else could there be?
“You don’t have to scream, Theo.”
“I’m not screaming!” But of course he was.
“Right. Yes. I take it congratulations are…notin order?”
“I don’t know.” He raked his hands through his hair. “She agreed to be my wife, but then… I think… we’re arguing?” Or had she sent him away for good?
Raph’s lips thinned, and he hung his head. Then his shoulders began to shake.
“Are you laughing?”
He looked up, his face cracked with mirth. “I am,” he gasped. “I can’t help it.” He grasped for a nearby seat and fell into it, his body heaving.
Theo spun and slammed the study door closed. “Shh! They’ll all hear you and come running because we belong to a family of busybodies.”
“True.” Raph wiped a tear from his eye. “God, it’s true. But are you sure? About being in love. Ha. Damn, my belly aches now. Haven’t had that good a laugh in ages.”
