Page 4 of My Fake Mistress
A frost crystalised between Yvette and her father for a fraction of a moment. His jaw clenched, and his chest swelled with a tight breath.
‘They can’t stay hidden forever,’ Yvette continued, not looking up from her tea. ‘I would like to hang them in my rooms. Even take some to the townhouse. Blythe can advise which are suitable for transport.’
During her apprenticeship with her uncle, Blythe had worked enough private commissions to know that family collections could be messy business. They had been paid substantially to restore pieces that were worthless to the market, but invaluable to the clients. More than just the scene or the artists name, some artworks were weighted by memory and sentiment, and often held meaning beyond that which the painter applied to the canvas.
Julian swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing above his collar button. He stared hard at Yvette, who glanced up, before returning to her study of her stirring. Then he looked to Blythe, his gaze probing.
‘Can I recommend my conservator? Someone a bit more…’ Carlson looked her over, searching for a word. ‘Experienced?’
Blythe swallowed her retort. She knew what Carlson wanted to say, because she had heard it so many times before.Male. Someone a bit more of a man.
Julian drummed his fingers. A slight scowl furrowed his brows. He folded his paper and dropped it to the table. ‘I trust Blythe. Yvette, show her up, after breakfast. Provided she wants to spend her day locked in a stuffy attic with a jumble of old artworks.’
Blythe half jumped from her seat with surprise. ‘I’ll fetch my brushes. My sponges. My—’
‘Sit, sit,’ Yvette laughed as she tugged Blythe down. ‘They’ve been there forever. A few more minutes while you eat won’t hurt them.’
‘And I almost forgot,’ Julian said as he rose from the table. He held out a small stack of folded booklets, with thick card covers, their spines stitched with coffee coloured string. ‘I found these in my study last night. They’re old catalogues from museums and galleries I visited when I went on my tour. The Louvre, Prado, Capitoline, Kunstmuseum. I understand the arrangement is part of a painting’s story. I thought you might be interested in them.’
Long ago, Blythe had trained her hands to steadiness, so as she reached for the little stack, she didn’t tremble, even though she thought she might combust inside. Although she’d always known love, she’d received few gifts in her life, and none as perfect as the slightly tattered bundle of booklets from Julian. Unable to hold her curiosity, she flicked the top one open and began to scan the listings. At the top of each yellowed page was printed the name of an artist, followed by a painting name, and on some entries, a brief description. She couldn’t read the French, or the German, but she recognisedLebrunandRaphael, and could pick out enough words likeJupiterandSatyreto guess what artwork was referenced. She hadn’t ever seen the works themselves, but she recognised the titles from etchings reproduced in magazines and books.
‘They’re beautiful,’ she said, only glancing up long enough to see his normally stoic expression turn warm with a half-smile. ‘I’ve seen some from London, but never from the continent, and never…’ Blythe turned the pages as she chatted, aware she was veering into babbling. A folded corner of paper, a slightly different shade to the rest, caught her eye. She pulled it from between the leaves. Not a printed list, this page was covered in handwritten notes.
Minerva protects Pax from Mars – Rubens
The Birth of Venus – Botticelli
The Pastoral Concert – Giorgione
Danae – Gentischeli
They were all paintings of…heavens.
Blythe stuck the note back into the booklet, quickly folded it closed and gripped the stack tight. She stood with a jerk, her chair squeaking against the wooden boards. Julian’s cheeks had blanched, and the lightness had left his face. What was left? Aloofness? Mortification? Or something else? Something… darker?
‘I will fetch my kit and change. Thank you, your lordship, I will treasure these.’
Had he meant to give her the list? Was it part of the ruse they had entered into? Or perhaps just a relic from his days traveling? As she scampered from the dining hall, Blythe tried to control the blush she felt creeping up her neck.
What on earth to make of the list ofthosepaintings?
Gripping the vertical shelves of the bookcase for balance, Julian leaned out a little to survey the hallway before the library. He’d purposefully left the dark drapes drawn, and grey shadows blanketed the solid oak furniture. Tucked away on the third floor, out of the way of the general thoroughfare that guests might take, the library was a small nook of peace when conversation became too much. It also offered an uninterrupted view of the bare wooden staircase that led to the attic.
Julian retreated behind the shelf again.
He shouldn’t be hiding. It was ridiculous. He was a baron, slinking around his own home like an impassioned youth trying to catch a glimpse of an infatuation.
But he wanted that list, and also, he wanted to explain to Blythe that he hadn’t meant anything by it. Because as she had scanned the names, he had seen the flash of recognition. Sheknewwhat they were. He’d forgotten he’d even written the blasted thing. The notes of a randy young man who, finally free from his too strict parents, had revelled in the passion and nudity on display in all those museums. During his year abroad, he’d escaped his father’s evangelical lectures on chasteness and purity, and both of his parents’ obsession with crude thoughts and the worst horror of all, masturbation. In a quiet, sensual rebellion, he’d kept the list and used it as a type of inspiration, to stroke himself to climax, at least before he married. Once he had a real woman in his bed, soft and enchanting and embracing his passion, he hadn’t needed his list or his hand.
Then she’d gone, and since then, he hadn’t felt anything so agonising as lust.
Until last night, that was.
As a light step clipped down the stairs, Julian peeped from behind the shelf. Yvette spun in a small pirouette, before descending down the next flight. Once her footfalls faded, he crept along the hallway and ascended as fast as he dared, then slunk into the attic.
He hadn’t been up here in years, maybe a decade. He’d always imagined it dark and filled with shadows, perhaps even ghosts and skeletons peering out from dark cavities, but despite the light grey gloom from the dust and faded sheets draped over stored furniture, a soft morning glow from the dormer windows infiltrated the space. Motes danced between shafts of light, and even without heating, the room felt as warm as the lower levels. The clench that had gripped his heart as he stepped onto the bottom stair eased a little, and as he exhaled a dry breath, composure settled through his shoulders.
Blythe, on the far side of the room, had her back to him as she inspected a row of paintings stacked frame to frame. She wore a simple navy-blue gingham house dress, with a light white woollen shawl over her shoulders. Today, her hair was pinned into a simpler bun, the sort of thing she likely did herself. It suited her.
