To capture love, p.1
To Capture Love, page 1
To Capture Love
Outside the Circle Mystery, Volume 0
Shereen Vedam
Published by Shereen Vedam, 2019.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
TO CAPTURE LOVE
Third edition. 2019.
Copyright © 2019 Shereen Vedam.
Written by Shereen Vedam.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
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Further Reading: Death Takes a Detour
Also By Shereen Vedam
About the Author
This book is dedicated to all those who have loved and lost, and then lived to carry on.
Chapter One
April 1812, London, England
One-and-twenty-year-old Pauline Blackburn hurried out of her father’s London townhouse making her way to an appointment with the curator of the British Museum. He planned to introduce her to a new client, Major Livingston.
The moment her neatly shod foot touched the pavement, a gull squawked overhead with an uh-uh-uh call. Pauline glanced up in time for the bird to spray refuse across the side of her bonnet, splash her cheek, and plunge down the front of the blue-striped spencer.
She let out a howl of shock.
The bird responded with a loud wail as it flew away.
A passing woman stopped to chuckle and then masked her ill-thought humor with a soothing ooh, and oh, dear.
Pauline’s maid, Lucy, cried out in alarm. “Oh, miss, this surely portends ill luck.”
“I’ve heard it said that it’s good luck,” the female pedestrian kindly offered.
“Botheration,” was all Pauline could think to say before she rushed back up the front stairs and inside.
Her mother, checking that morning’s calling cards, glanced up, her brow rising with worry. “What’s happened?”
Pauline waved her away and whisked up to her bedchamber, Lucy trailing in her wake. This was an immensely important appointment. As such, her need to look presentable warred with wanting to arrive before the appointed time. Normally, to her mother’s distress, Pauline hardly noticed what she wore. Today was different. On this particular day, she wished to stand out, be admired, perhaps even impress.
She quickly washed her face before choosing a new bonnet that would match a different spencer. Then she expended precious minutes ensuring her shoes, too, harmonized with the rest of her clothing. All those preparations took at least fifteen minutes, the time ticking in her ears like an annoyingly loud pocket watch.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
Shut up, she mentally chastised her inner timepiece. She’d given herself plenty of time this morning for just such an unanticipated mishap. She would not be late.
Her new client hated tardiness. Her cousin, Cecil, an infantry soldier, had mentioned that fact in more than one of his letters from the war currently raging in Spain. Cecil had served with her client, Major Livingston, while the British ground forces supported the Spanish troops during the siege at the naval base in Cádiz. The major’s nickname was apparently Stone, for his strength and endurance during battle.
To Pauline, he sounded as if he would be unforgiving, especially if she was late. That could not happen.
She and Lucy hurried downstairs for the second time. She arrived in the foyer to learn that her mother, having heard of the battle of the gull, had arranged for her daughter to travel in the safety of the Blackburn town carriage.
Pauline hugged her mother with heartfelt gratitude and sped out the door. In no time, she and Lucy were off in the comfort of the family carriage, and Pauline breathed a sigh of relief.
She checked her timepiece. All good. She should be at the museum before the major even arrived there. Of course, he was more than just a major now.
When he inherited the title of earl, it had been the news of the day in London. His ascension had been quite a surprise, as the late earl had both a wife and an heir apparent. However, a tragic carriage accident wiped out the whole family last summer, making Major Livingston the new Earl of Ashford.
Pauline’s father had said that even after having heard of his inheritance, the major refused to give up his commission and leave Spain. Only after being wounded in the knee during a skirmish as the French forces marched toward Cádiz last autumn, did Ashford’s commanding officer order him home.
Two weeks after he returned to London, news arrived that his brother, the Honorable Geoffrey Livingston, had died in battle.
The tragedy was heartbreaking, not only to the Livingston family but to all in London who had celebrated Major Livingston’s ascension and then mourned his terrible loss.
In her small way, Pauline, too, wanted to ease the new earl’s suffering. That was partly why gaining this commission was so important. She knew him personally. Years ago, during her presentation to the queen, she had fallen in love with him.
The sound of a crash ahead startled her out of her thoughts. Her carriage came to a jarring halt.
Leaning out the window, she said, “Lucy, can you see what’s happening up ahead?”
Her maid gazed out the opposite window. “Oh, miss,” she said, “an apple cart’s crashed in front of our carriage.”
Pauline slid over to the other side and peered out. Every horse, bird, and stray child nearby seemed to be swooping in to steal one of the escaping ripe fruits spilling across the roadway and causing a royal ruckus.
“Oh, no,” she whispered in horror. They were still two long blocks from their destination. “We’re going to be late.”
That panicked thought had her flinging open the carriage door and jumping out. Picking up her skirts, she sprinted down the pavement, weaving in and out of the pedestrian traffic.
“Miss, wait for me!” Lucy shouted behind her.
Pauline didn’t slow a bit, her heart hammering in a panic that she was about to lose this assignment.
She ran, pell-mell, down the street, past people exclaiming in alarm at her speedy passage, all the while praying, Please don’t let him leave without seeing me.
DESPITE BEING ONLY five and twenty, Matthew Robert (Stone) Livingston, the sixth Earl of Ashford, felt as old as his late father. He tapped his good right foot on the museum foyer’s marble floor in rhythm to the pounding at his temple. Headaches assaulted him frequently these days, especially since news arrived of his younger brother’s death last November. Waiting a good fifteen minutes for the artist he’d employed had exacerbated the throbbing. He checked his timepiece, snapped it shut, and slipped it back into his pocket.
“My lord,” the curator said. “I’m sure Mr. Black will be here shortly.” The man’s nervous glance toward the front door dissuaded Robert of any such fortunate occurrence.
Stone strode with his lopsided gait to the closest window. Six months since his return to England and his injury still plagued him as if it had occurred yesterday in London instead of months ago on the road to Cádiz.
He gazed out the window displaying his gloom with a deep frown, disappointed with the speed of his healing and missing his brother and the comfort of his late parents. The only close family he had left was a first cousin he’d hated as a child and couldn’t stomach as an adult.
This museum fronted Montague Street, which was heavy with London’s morning traffic of hackney carriages, gentlemen on horseback, and carts carrying produce to the city center. No Mr. Black rushed up the museum steps to keep his overdue appointment.
He could not believe he stood there like a dunce waiting for the rude fellow. If anyone else had dared to keep him waiting, after refusing to meet him at the Ashford Estate, the offender would have lost Stone’s custom within a minute of the appointed time. He approached the opposite window, but it offered no better prospect.
He should simply hire another artist. However, shortly after Geoffrey’s funeral, he’d received a sympathy card from the Blackburn family, which had included a palm-sized stone carving of a man petting his dog. An odd gift to include as a condolence gesture, but Stone had been fascinated by the plaque. He had kept it close at hand ever since, giving it pride of place on his writing desk.
When he first saw the delicate carving, he had been entranced by the kindness in the man’s face and the depth of feeling shared between master and pet so skillfully depicted in cold hard stone.
The hand-sized marble plaque was cool to the touch, but it generated a burning warmth within his heart every time he thought of it; as it did now. On its hind flat side, the name P. Black had been etched.
When he went to be formally presented with his new title at the House of Lords last December, the prime minister had approached him about sponsoring a war memorial in memory of Geoffrey’s heroic death. P. Black was the name that instantly popped into his mind. However, at the time, just the thought of his slain brother had brought a lump to his throat. So, he’d refused, unwilling to deal with a memory that was still too fresh and painful.
Later, when the offer was sent formally in writing, he’d been holding the plaque as he read, and knew that only this artist could do proper credit to a representation of Geoffrey.
His letter of inquiry to the Blackburns elicited the information that the artist could be contacted through the British Museum. Now, here he stood, still waitin g for the tardy sculptor.
“Enough waiting,” he said to the curator. “I shall attend him at his home.”
“But...but,” the curator sputtered.
“Come, man. Have I not wasted enough time? Give me Mr. Black’s direction.”
“My lord, I do not have his home address. I value him, of course. He is a genius at restorative work as well as with his creations. However, all the museum’s prior dealings with P. Black have been by way of a third party. That’s how we arranged this rare engagement. It took much convincing, I assure you. Perhaps the shy gentleman could not bring himself to reveal who he is.”
“Unacceptable,” Stone replied. “I must meet him. Talk to him about Geoffrey. How else will he be able to portray my brother as he truly was?”
“Perhaps his lordship will allow me to arrange another meeting?” the curator asked tentatively. “I shall stress even more the importance of the interview and his punctuality.”
Stone’s aching leg would not allow him to stand still much longer, and sitting was even worse. He sighed in resignation. “Very well.”
He strode limping across the foyer and flung open the front door, slamming it shut behind him. He squinted as the brightness of the sunshine blinded him momentarily, painting the view outside in a glare of white light.
PAULINE FINALLY REACHED the museum’s front steps and, heaving for breath, raced up. Halfway to the landing, she crashed into someone coming down the stairs.
A man caught her by her arms and held her back. “My pardon, miss,” he said. “You should watch where you step.”
“Oh, no,” Pauline said with a wheeze, alarmed at how he was gripping her arms. “You’re crushing my spencer, sir. You shall make it seem as if I slept in the thing. And this is already the second time I’ve had to change.”
There was a definite pause and then, with studied sarcasm, he slowly released his grip and said, “My apologies for wrinkling your garment.”
She finally glanced up at the man and recognition sank in like a lead brick. She’d run into Lord Ashford leaving the museum.
Oh, no! She stumbled down a step, still out of breath from her rush to get here. He’s leaving.
He stepped to the side to pass by her and, impulsively, Pauline stepped in front of him.
“My lord,” she gave a hesitant smile. “Forgive me for...”
He raised a hand, cutting her off. “Kindly step away.”
“But you don’t understand, my lord. You see my carriage was caught behind a toppled apple cart not two blocks away. I’m...”
“Pray, desist!” he snapped, as if stunned by her audacity at engaging him in conversation.
Most devastating of all, there was not a shred of recognition in his gaze. It was as if he didn’t really see her. Obviously, unlike with her, their first meeting hadn’t been etched into his brain.
“We have not been formally introduced,” he continued, confirming her horrid suspicion that he’d completely forgotten her, “and I do not make a habit of speaking to strangers in public places.”
With his every word, Pauline’s hot face grew cold as blood drained away.
She heard a titter of laughter from below them on the pavement, suggesting people had stopped to watch this encounter. Even if he didn’t know who she was, those below would no doubt have recognized him, for his sketch had been in the papers for months. She’d seen it herself on the back of the newspapers her father read at the breakfast table.
He glanced past her to their audience, his displeasure expanding. Then he gave a sardonic bow and simply side-stepped her and left.
Pauline’s arms were still tingling where he’d held her so firmly, to ensure she didn’t tumble down the stairs. Their physical encounter had brought back vivid memories, along with an uncomfortable fluttering in her chest. Feelings and longings that had shattered into rubble long ago, now reformed.
“He didn’t recognize you,” Lucy said, stating the obvious as she came up the steps, panting. “After you made such a special effort to look your best.”
Pauline sent the limping form of the retreating earl a worried look, noting how he seemed so unhappy; it broke her heart that she’d added to his discontent by being late.
“What are we to do, miss?” Lucy continued, this time minding their audience and whispering. “This story is sure to grease the mills ‘fore sunset. Every household in the city will know that his lordship has given you a set-down.”
She ignored her maid’s worried chatter and focused on his lordship’s proud silhouette entering a carriage. He reminded her of a fine English alabaster statue – the very stone she’d been contemplating using to carve the image of his late brother. He was obviously still deep in grief. The last thing he needed was for the artist he hired to not show up as arranged.
“What if you’re refused a card to Almack’s this Season because of this public scene?” Lucy said in a soft lament.
“I’ve no interest in attending there ever again,” she replied absently, “so that hardly signifies.” Her Almack days were long past. Pauline had come out over three summers ago and had not “taken,” which, according to her mother, was due entirely to Pauline’s forbidding aspect whenever a gentleman came to call.
Having successfully married off three other daughters, but seeing no method of getting around their stubborn youngest girl, her parents relented and allowed Pauline to pursue her passion for sculpting.
They only insisted on one caveat; that during the Season, she must attend no less than five assemblies, balls, or the theatre, and smile at the gentlemen when they asked her to dance or spoke to her. Pauline had distractedly agreed, knowing it to be a small price to pay for having gained the freedom to sculpt.
The earl’s carriage, with a handsome coat of arms on its door, moved away down the street and so she turned to enter the museum in a troubled state.
Somehow, she had to find a way to salvage what she could from this disaster. She must not lose this assignment. It would be the biggest creation she’d ever been a part of. A true challenge to her strength, creativity, and commitment to her craft. Best of all, it would also give her a chance to properly re-introduce herself to the earl. He would not forget her a second time.
She entered the museum, and her breath caught, as it always did, in places where art took pride of place. Museums had a reverence about them that invariably left her with a sense of awe. It thrilled her to think one of her works of art could one day grace this stunning setting.
Pauline was a creditable sculptor. She’d even received some acclaim for her work, under a suitable male pseudonym, of course. This new assignment, however, was special. It was to be a war memorial to commemorate the fallen. She shivered at the very thought of being involved in such an incredibly honorable creation.
It was an effort by the prime minister himself to take advantage of the public interest already generated by Geoffrey Livingston’s death, to honor his contribution to the war, and instigate feelings of support for the British troops still fighting in Spain.
The statue was to be held temporarily at this prestigious British Museum; a lone modern art piece among all its natural history artifacts and classical antiquities. A month after its first public reveal, yes, an actual reveal, the piece was to be taken to its permanent location at the Household Cavalry Museum.
The movement of the statue – with suitable fanfare, of course - along the streets of London, was part of the process to impress upon Londoners, and indeed the whole country, the need for the immense amount of finances and manpower being expended to defeat Napoleon.
The possibility of working on this show thoroughly invigorated Pauline’s creativity. Working with the earl was merely the icing on this delicious cake. It was enough to entice her to agree to give up her anonymity to be presented to the man who was sponsoring the project. Lord Ashford had insisted on being introduced to the artist he had handpicked, knowing him as only “P. Black.”
If she wanted this assignment, and Pauline desperately did, she must admit to Lord Ashford that, first, the artist he had chosen was a female, and second, she was a lady of quality – the granddaughter of a peer. Her mother was the daughter of an earl.
