A Scandal in Newport Read online

  “Deftly done, sweetheart,” a familiar voice remarked from behind her.

  Amy started, then relaxed. “Thomas!” she chided. “You made me jump—am I going to have to put a bell on you?”

  “Will it start a new fashion if you do?” he inquired with genuine interest.

  “In Newport? All too likely. On second thought,” she subjected him to a lingering, head-to-toe scrutiny, “you look quite handsome without one.”

  Handsome—and to her secret relief, less… distracted than he’d sometimes appeared of late, when she’d had to leave him more to his own devices as the date of the party neared. Ordinarily, that wouldn’t have been a problem: much as they enjoyed each other’s company, they both understood that they did not need to spend every waking moment together, and Amy knew how essential privacy was to Thomas when he was working. He’d already produced watercolors of the beach and the Cliff Walk, as well as a series of very fine sketches in charcoal of a clambake they’d attended.

  This past week, however, she’d sensed a certain restlessness about him. And experienced the growing conviction that his mind was elsewhere, though he was as affectionate as ever when they were alone together. Which relieved her mind of niggling doubts that he might be regretting their engagement—mostly.

  Nonetheless, something wasn’t wholly right with him. Could it be homesickness? It wasn’t easy to immerse oneself wholly in the culture and customs of another country, even if one spoke the language. Amy herself had been a little daunted when she first set foot on English soil, and poor Relia—still suffering from the lingering effects of her accident—had hardly dared to venture out of their suite at Claridge’s. Here in Newport, surrounded by curious and occasionally overfamiliar Americans, it was not inconceivable that Thomas might be missing England.

  All the more reason to appreciate his presence at her side tonight. She smiled brilliantly at him, and saw an answering smile warm his eyes, dispelling some of her anxiety. Later, perhaps, when they were alone, she could ask him about what might be troubling him.

  “Do you know, sweetheart, this may be the most English party I’ve attended in America,” he observed now, scanning the ballroom and the assembled guests.

  “Is that a compliment?” Amy inquired, having heard his trenchant observations about certain English entertainments.

  “In this case, yes. It reminds me of some of my mother’s parties—in the best possible way, I assure you. Elegant, au courant, and just lavish enough.”

  And as Lady Julia Sheridan was accounted an excellent hostess, Amy let herself relax. “I’ll be sure to tell Mama that. She’s been quite anxious about everything being just right this evening.”

  His hand came to rest on the small of her back, a caress that was light, intimate, and familiar at once. “With all due respect for your mother’s efforts, the only thing required for perfection tonight is the two of us—together.”

  She leaned into his touch. “Then we’re in perfect accord, Mr. Sheridan, as always.”

  The ball officially began at ten o’clock, and Amy and Thomas played their parts as expected, opening the dancing with a quadrille. The official announcement of their betrothal—an hour or so into the festivities—was only a formality, but it was pleasant to receive the congratulations and good wishes of people Amy had known for much of her life.

  The guests also appeared to be enjoying themselves—including Geneva, Amy was pleased to note. Although the girl seemed disposed to linger in the quieter corners of the ballroom, Amy did glimpse her engaging in a few dances as well; Andrew, who’d come down from New York for the party, partnered her in one of the slower waltzes.

  For her part, Amy found herself fairly danced off her feet. Not that she minded, as Thomas was her most frequent partner, but it was a relief to discover that she’d left a Lancers unclaimed, so she could enjoy a short respite. Slipping into a secluded alcove with Thomas, she fanned herself vigorously, certain that her face was the shade of a well-boiled lobster.

  Thomas leaned against the alcove wall. “Shall I procure us some refreshment?” he asked, looking as fresh as he had when the evening began—which was almost unforgivable of him.

  “That would be wonderful!” Amy declared fervently, tucking a stray curl behind her ear.

  “Anything my lady particularly desires?”

  “An ice, please—if there are any left.” To judge from the number of people she’d seen consuming them, they’d proven to be especially popular. “Any flavor will do, though raspberry’s my favorite.”

  “So I’ve observed. Your wish is my command.” He sketched her a bow before departing.

  Alone, Amy plied her fan and gazed out at the assembled couples on the dance floor. She caught sight of Geneva moving through the set, even smiling now and then at her brother-in-law, who was partnering her. No sign of disquiet or anxiety—so much the better. Indeed, all the guests Amy could see appeared to be fully enjoying themselves. The party was proving to be an unqualified success, of which any hostess might be justly proud. Indeed, every time Amy had seen her mother this evening, Laura Newbold had been flushed with triumph and pleasure.

  Intent on the dancers, Amy was barely aware of someone slipping into the alcove behind her—another woman, to judge from the accompanying rustle of skirts. Automatically, she moved aside to make room.

  The newcomer murmured almost inaudible thanks, then said more clearly—if still tentatively, “Good evening, Amy.”

  Amy stiffened, immediately recognizing the voice. But she maintained an expression of distant courtesy as she turned around. “Good evening, Sally. I hope that you’re enjoying yourself this evening.”

  “Oh, yes. This is a wonderful party, Amy,” Sally Vandermere ventured, her expression almost… timid. “And I was very happy to be invited.”

  “We are—pleased that you and your family could attend,” Amy replied, hoping that a bolt of lightning would not strike her down for the polite untruth.

  “Charlie couldn’t—but then he’s been far too busy in the city to come down to Newport this summer.”

  Amy managed a sweetly insincere smile at the news. “What a pity.”

  Flushing, Sally bit her lip. “Amy, I hope you won’t take offense at this, but… I’d like to clear the air between us.” She took a breath, then rushed on, “I know that you and the rest of your family don’t much like Charlie after the way he treated Aurelia—and I can’t say that I blame you,” she added hurriedly. “I’d feel exactly the same in your place. Just—well, I want you to know that I personally would have been glad to have Aurelia for a sister.”

  Amy stared at her. This must be the first time any Vandermere had admitted fault in their treatment of her twin. Perhaps, she reflected a little guiltily, she had been less than fair to Sally, who had—after all—been much too young to have had any involvement in her brother’s heartless jilting of the girl who loved him. Certainly she wasn’t to blame for Stupid Charlie being… well, stupid.

  “Anyway, I hope your sister is very happy in her marriage,” Sally continued. “She deserves to be. I thought Lord Trevenan seemed very pleasant, from what I saw of him.”

  Amy allowed herself to thaw a little further. “Relia is very happy, Sally—thank you for inquiring. And Lord Trevenan is the most estimable of men.” She should know, having been briefly engaged to him herself. “He and my sister are ideally suited to one another,” she added. “Just as Mr. Sheridan and I are.”

  Sally nodded, looking slightly wistful. “How romantic that you and Aurelia should have found your perfect matches this year! I hope I can be as lucky someday.”

  “Has anyone taken your fancy yet?” Amy inquired, more from a wish to be pleasant than from any real curiosity. But if Sally could make the effort, then so could she.

  “Well, I’ve only just come out this year, so I haven’t really settled on any one person,” the girl confessed. “Although…” she glanced over her shoulder, then pointed mischievously with her fan, “there are two fel
lows who’ve been very attentive lately!”

  Following her gesture, Amy saw Theo Van Horn and Tony Ogden approaching the alcove, each sporting a determined expression.

  “I happened to mention that my next waltz was unclaimed—and I suspect they’re both about to ask for it,” Sally confessed, stifling a giggle. “I don’t know whether I prefer Theo or Tony, but having them courting me this summer has been fun! Aren’t they a handsome pair?”

  Handsome is as handsome does. Amy bit back the tart observation in favor of a noncommittal “Mm.” They were good-looking enough, she supposed, and both of a similar physical type: blond and athletic, even a little beefy. A matched set… like Tweedledee and Tweedledum, a voice in her head—that sounded very like Thomas—remarked sardonically. She wondered if Sally knew about the Van Horns’ recent financial difficulties and whether she should mention them. But she couldn’t think of a way to do so without sounding spiteful or catty, as though she were trying to spoil a young girl’s innocent pleasure in her beaux. Nor did she wish to stay and exchange pleasantries with a man she suspected of discourtesy towards her fiancé.

  Fortunately, at that moment she spied Thomas, approaching with a crystal bowl—heaped high with the requested ices—in each hand.

  “Ah, there’s Thomas,” she reported brightly. “Please excuse me, Sally. I hope you enjoy the rest of the evening.”

  Slipping out of the alcove, she went to meet him. He handed her one of the bowls with a flourish. “Raspberry ice, as my lady requested.”

  “Thank you, sir!” Amy dipped her spoon into the ice-pink confection, savored the sweet coldness on her tongue. “Um, delicious!”

  He sampled his own—lemon, pale and icy—and nodded in approval. “As good as Gunter’s, if not better. I hope I didn’t keep you waiting too long.”

  “Not at all. I was just exchanging pleasantries—with Sally Vandermere, of all people.”

  His brows rose sharply. “That must have been an interesting conversation! No blood was shed, I trust?”

  “Not a drop. Though that might not have been the case if Stupid Charlie had been present. Still,” she conceded, “Sally’s not to blame for his mistakes. I may not care much for the Vandermeres as a family, but I’ll make an effort in future to treat each one as an individual, rather than tar them all with one brush!”

  “A commendable resolution,” Thomas remarked.

  “And just one of many, I’ll have you know.”

  “Oh? Pray continue, sweetheart.”

  “Well, my second resolution is to find a quiet corner, just for us, so we can enjoy these delicious ices. And my third,” she smiled into his eyes, “is to dance until dawn—with you.”

  Dawn was indeed showing its face by the time the party ended. Too tired to steal more than a few kisses from her fiancé, Amy tumbled into bed as soon as she was undressed and slept dreamlessly.

  She awoke when the sun was climbing towards midday, and enjoyed a light breakfast in her room. Inquiring about the rest of the family, she learned that her mother was still abed but her father and brother had both gone for a swim at Bailey’s Beach. Mr. Sheridan, Mariette informed her, was up and working in the small parlor he liked to use as a studio.

  Amy eagerly donned a pretty blue morning dress and went to join him. Pausing in the open doorway, she drank in the sight of Thomas standing before an easel, hard at work at what appeared to be a watercolor sketch of the Cliff Walk and some of the surrounding cottages.

  There was an undeniable thrill, she decided, in watching one’s lover do what he was meant to do. The light from the window limned Thomas in gold as if he were a painting himself. She could see his brows knit in a frown of concentration, his hair tousled and spilling over his high forehead, as his hand moved the brush over the page with almost surgical precision, applying daubs of blue and white to evoke a summer sky ornamented with puffball clouds.

  He stepped back suddenly, the crease between his brows deepening as he studied his work in silence. Then, to Amy’s shock, he reached out and slashed his brush in a large “X” across the paper. Once, and again, more violently—as though the painting had somehow offended him.

  A sound of dismay escaped her, and Thomas glanced towards the doorway, his expression becoming almost embarrassed as he registered her presence.

  “Thomas, what’s wrong?” she asked, coming further into the room.

  He blew out a breath, set down his brush, and offered her a wry smile. “An artistic tantrum. Sorry, sweetheart.”

  “There’s no need to apologize.” Amy assured him. She’d destroyed most of her own sketches and paintings once she’d discovered the limitations of her artistic ability. Crossing over to the easel, she studied the rejected painting. “What do you think is wrong with it?”

  “Can’t you see it?”

  One more thing she loved about him: that he expected an honest opinion from her when it came to his work. And she would not disappoint him in that. Lips pursed, she examined the watercolor more closely—even critically.

  “Well,” she ventured, after a moment, “it looks technically proficient to me. And it’s certainly not terrible. I can think of several people who’d be quite happy to have something like this hanging in their sitting room…”

  “But?” he prompted, his gaze intent on her face.

  Amy fidgeted beneath his scrutiny. “Bear in mind, Thomas, that this is still miles better than anything I could produce. But it seems a little… quieter than your usual style of work.”

  “You mean ‘dull.’”

  “I didn’t say that!”

  “You didn’t have to. Nor have you seen the work I’ve already destroyed.” He raked a hand through his hair. “Everything I’ve produced this past week has been like that: pretty, placid—and soulless.”

  “I think you’re being much too hard on yourself,” she said staunchly. “You’ve done some lovely work in Newport.”

  “A few pieces,” he conceded. “But most of what I’ve done here feels… uninspired. As if the life—the vital pulse—is missing, in spite of how beautiful this place is.” Grimacing, he dropped down onto the nearest chair, one hand shielding his eyes. “All is silver-grey / Placid and perfect with my art: the worse!”

  Browning, Amy’s memory supplied: one of his favorite poets—and hers. About Andrea Del Sarto, the “faultless painter” who might have aspired to more, had he not been in thrall to a demanding and covetous wife…

  She bit her lip, struck by an idea to which she was reluctant to give voice. But this work was a vital part of the man she loved, and she would not be selfish. “Would—would a change of scene help?”

  “Another region of Newport, you mean?”

  “No, a more comprehensive change than that.” She took a bracing breath. “You weren’t uninspired when we first arrived in America. In fact, you said you could have painted all day and night, when we were in New York. Perhaps it would help, if you went back there for a while? Andrew and Father are both planning to depart tomorrow—you could go with them.”

  He looked up at that. “I don’t want to leave you, Amelia.”

  The admission warmed her through and through; she found it easier to continue. “You wouldn’t be. Not really. Lots of husbands and fathers spend the weekdays in the city, then come down for the weekend. And you’ve been here every day for the last two weeks, doing everything—well, almost everything—I want.” Her maiden virtue was still intact, alas, despite her best efforts.

  She saw the conflict in his eyes, the reluctance mingling with longing, and pressed on. “Thomas, if I had even a scintilla of your talent, I’d guard my time like a dragon guarding its hoard! How could I be so selfish as to begrudge you the time you need for your art?” She went to him, kneeling to frame his dearly loved face with her hands. “Go to New York, my dear—and come back with a masterpiece. I’ll still be here, waiting.”

  He caught her to him, kissed her swiftly and fiercely. “There’s not a woman in a thousand who would unde
rstand. Thank you for being that woman.”

  The sweetness of his praise alleviated the pang of their imminent parting. Who needed a sonnet composed to her eyebrow when the man she loved could summon eloquence like that? Locking her arms about his neck, she returned kiss for kiss.

  “A masterpiece, mind,” she murmured against his lips. “And letters telling me about everything you find to paint in the city.” Then, more softly, remembering Del Sarto’s last words in the poem, “Go, my Love.”

  Chapter Five

  Then wilt thou speak of banqueting delights,

  Of masks and revels which sweet youth did make.

  —Thomas Campion, A Book of Airs

  * * *

  New York, 31 August 1891

  * * *

  My Dearest Amelia—

  By now I have settled in with your father and brother in the Fifth Avenue house, where the three of us come and go according to our varied schedules. In some respects, this reminds me of my earliest days as an artist—long before you and even before my studio on Half Moon Street—when I had rooms at the Albany and worked all manner of strange hours. This return to semi-bachelorhood feels strange and not wholly comfortable now, which I attribute entirely to your influence. A disconcerting realization, but one that seems to bode well for our future life together—would you not agree, sweetheart?

  Nonetheless, I cannot deny that, as you suggested, New York has proven to be a tonic as far as my work is concerned. During the day I venture out with my sketchbook to explore parts of the city. Hardly an hour passes when I do not see something worth capturing on paper, whether it’s the sun rising over New York harbor, children playing in Central Park, or the vendors hawking their wares on the Lower East Side. I cannot promise a masterpiece as yet, but I believe I have produced some worthwhile drawings that may perhaps yield to more.

  Today, intrigued by the similarity of the name, I ventured into the area your country calls Soho, where I spent most of the day trying to capture the varied character of the place: from the theatres to the shops, to the grand hotels and the somewhat—shall we say, less respectable venues? Tomorrow, I plan to board the ferry to Coney Island for a closer look at the Elephantine Colossus you pointed out to me from the ship rail when we first entered the harbor. My one regret is that you are not with me…