For some reason though, his disloyal boots halted.
Turned on their heel.
Even at this distance, he could see that Miss Nash had placed an arm around her cousin’s stooped shoulders while Miss Verity Seymour… She was staring in his direction.
He cursed, teeth gritted, and twisted to stride away.
Boots now firmly back under his command.
5
“BUT THOU ART IMMORTAL AND DOST NEVER FADE, BUT BLOOMEST FOR EVER IN RENEWED YOUTH.”
(AESOP’S FABLES: THE ROSE AND THE AMARANTH)
Men in blue jackets on steeds of bravery galloped over the battlefield with expressions of courage, stoicism, thrill, terror and determination. Their captain rode a gelding of dun, his face thin and haggard.
Miles’face.
And was that Lieutenant Jones on the grey horse? He certainly had the same beard.
How the devil did The Witness do it?
Earlier, finding himself at a loose end until meeting with the dragoon’s clerk on the morrow, Miles had ordered the closed plain carriage for discretion and paid a visit to the art gallery on Bond Street where the regiment’s colonel had purchased his two paintings. The owner was indeed exhibiting several war canvases, including another by this damn artist fellow.
Miles had thought to question the owner but ’twas a fruitless endeavour as he’d never met The Witness, instead receiving theworks from a famed art patron, the Duke of Rothwell. Making a note to obtain an introduction to the formidable aristocrat, Miles had then been persuaded by the owner’s gammon and prattle to purchase the painting.
It had set him back a fair sum but he had to admit it was…powerful.
Propped on a low cabinet against the panelled wall, Miles viewed it from the comfortable leather chair of his study. Dusk had deepened the room to a subdued half-light and he regarded it in silence, one hand wrapped about a glass of whisky.
Most artists sought to show the glory and victory of battle, but this fellow wished to convey more – the sucking mud clutching at the horses’ legs, the confusion from the smoke of muskets and the horror of riding over dead men.
Miles had thought a close inspection of the scene might give him some clue as to who the artist was, and although a distant notion tantalised his cockloft, it was too vague to bring forth.
A knock. “Yer wanted me, Captain.”
Miles glanced over to Lynch hovering at the door. “Hmm. Have a look at this painting and tell me what you think.”
Lynch squinted. “Dark as debtor’s prison in here, hold on…” He grabbed a splint, waggled it in a wall sconce and then lit the candelabra before approaching the canvas. “Yer a mite bit reedy-looking, C’tain, but it’s yer mug, right enough. And dip me in aspic but ain’t that Lieutenant Jones? Battle of Orthez?”
“My thoughts exactly. Look at the date it’s signed.”
“1815. A year after.” He twisted, nose scrunched.
“I go around in bloody circles, Lynch. At first, I believed the artist must be from the regiment because of the accuracy of detail, but surely we would have noticed a soldier daubing away in his spare time.” He scowled. “And do you even remember anyone who could paint? Jones himself, perhaps?”
“Couldn’t paint a wall, Captain. And yer not wrong, no one could’ve done this whilst still in the dragoons. Paper were hard enough to come by, let alone canvas. Sketches maybe.”
Miles slowly exhaled. “Have a think, then, of anyone who was sent home early, after Orthez but before 1815. Injured men and so forth.”
“I’ll shove m’thinking cap on.” And with a salute, his factotum stepped smartly from the study.
Miles brought the whisky to his lips but grimaced as the stitches pulled in his arm.
Now lit by the candelabra, the artist’s skill was highlighted evermore – the sheen of sunlight upon the sabres, the sparking of cannon fire and, in juxtaposition, the peaceful sloping hills of France in the background, verdant and everlasting.
Verity slipped into his thoughts.
